


Code Duello

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Swords & Fencing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 89,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness.  When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 1 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta. I've tried to flag all the major romantic pairings, but this is a college AU, so there are a lot more flirtations and suchlike going on among the characters. But if you can't tolerate this, you probably wouldn't be reading one of my fics anyway.  
 **Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** The formal dueling in this one is a mish-mosh of modern fencing and kendo. Street fighting is an unholy blend of mixed martial arts and samurai movies I watched as a kid.

 

Castiel was flat on his back, waiting to die.

The guy leapt at him, sword flashing. But his cry of triumph turned to a moan as he felt Castiel’s boots bashing his midsection.

Castiel danced up to his feet, twirled around and grabbed his own sword from the ground just in time to clobber the guy with the hilt, sending him staggering back. He sensed the hum of an electric blade and hot breath at his neck and jabbed an elbow around in back of him, feeling a snap. He whirled around to face the second guy, who now had blood gushing from his broken nose. As the crowd roared, Castiel forced him back by another blow with his sword hilt.

“Where the blazes are you, Uriel?” Castiel muttered. He landed a good, clean blow with the humming blade on the second guy and heard his shielding snap and pop in response (he would have racked up the points, if it had been that kind of match). That sent him staggering down to the mat, and Cas turned on a dime to confront the first guy again. A parry, and the blades both crackled with electricity. The crowd hooted and howled as they always did at the show of sparks. He was near enough to hitch some wall, so he leapt up the clear side of the octagonal plexi cage and kicked off the corner, slamming the guy but good from overhead. He spotted the motionless lump in the corner: Uriel was still down. Damn! It was him against two angry, juiced-up opponents. He needed to get at least one down, but fast. He decided to drop the guy he was currently dueling, hoping that his partner would stay stunned for a while. These matches weren’t supposed to end in death, but Castiel had been around long enough to see how quickly they turned. And two versus one was a good way to end up injured. Or dead.

This guy wasn’t taller than Castiel, so he didn’t have reach to his advantage, just raw strength. Castiel decided to go for disarming. He feinted, and then turned and ran at full speed towards the opposite wall, counting on the dude to be stupid enough to follow. Castiel ran up the wall and then kicked off the ceiling, flipping over backwards, and coming down with everything he had on the guy’s sword shoulder, feeling the crunch of blade to bone. His opponent screamed and fell, clutching his broken collarbone as his sword slipped from his useless arm.

Something smashed into Castiel as soon as he touched down, slamming him into the wall. He reeled from the blow to his ribs, wiping blood from his mouth. The other opponent was up and charging him. Dazed, Castiel got up his own sword in time to parry the next blow, but this dude was taller as well as stronger, and Castiel was at a crap angle underneath him. The blows rained down, as fast as his shielding could catch them, as he backed away, smashed back against the cage wall, until … shit! The guy was gonna corner him, and then it would be all over. 

Cas took a chance and body checked the guy, throwing himself against him, and then he tucked and rolled away. He landed badly on his ribs though, and didn’t get up as quickly as he’d planned. The guy was looming over him, sword poised, and Castiel was once again readying himself for a knockout blow.

Suddenly, his opponent froze. Castiel took a step back. The guy's mouth dropped open, spilling blood. It was then Castiel spotted the end of a blade sticking out of his neck, crackling bloody red sparks. 

The blade slipped away, as did the guy's life, and he fell to the mat with a thump, revealing Uriel, standing behind him, raising a bloody sword in triumph.

Castiel gawped, his heart turned to lead in his chest.

“No.”

He was no longer there, and this was no longer happening. Somewhere, a crowd was on its feet, roaring. Uriel grabbed Castiel’s hand and wrenched it upwards over his head, signaling their victory.

But that was somewhere else.

 

“I tell ya, Sammy, I dunno how I’m even gonna be able to field a team this year.”

“Um-hm.” 

“Are you even listening?”

“Umm.”

Dean reached across the picnic table and yanked away Sam’s laptop, prompting a “Hey!” from the younger Winchester. The two sat in the shade of a tree in the middle of the university's park-like quad area, eating what passed for food from the commons (though Sam seemed less than interested in his) and discussing Dean's increasingly shaky future as captain of the fencing team.

Dean grabbed the computer with his special sauce-drenched paws. “What, are you checking your porn?” he asked, louder than he absolutely had to, causing a couple of passing coeds to turn their heads and giggle, and Sammy to flush like a sunburned lobster. 

It was a sunny fall day, so there were a lot of students outside strolling by, many of them carrying shiny, obviously new sidearms strapped at their belts, or over their backs, like the street fighters did. Even the unarmed students showed a distinct duelist influence this season, with many wearing thick boots with creases, like you get from the constant tapping of a sword edge, molded into the sides. Wellman Wellies. A pox on both our houses, is what Bobby Singer said of them.

Dean’s boots were scarred, but he had come by it the honest way, from tapping it with the flat of his dueling blade to make sure his electrical shielding was functioning properly. His sword was currently resting on the ground by his feet. Even away at school he didn’t want to risk getting yelled at by Uncle Bobby for having the manners of a wild hog.

“I’m doing homework, Dean,” Sam whispered, pulling the computer back. “Homework? You remember that concept?” He grabbed a paper napkin and tried to dab off the big brother-prints. “I don't wanna get kicked out freshman year.”

Dean picked up his burger again and chawed off a generous bite. He wiped his mouth on a sleeve. “What am I gonna do about the team, Sam?” he asked, bit of lettuce trailing from the corner of his mouth. “We don’t field a minimum number of players, we can’t stay eligible. We don’t stay eligible, they yank my scholarship.”

Sam’s expression darkened. “And you might have to actually pay for your college? Like all the us non-duelist bigshot people?” 

“Hey, you could go out for the team! If you weren't obsessed with all that studying and crap.”

“Studying is crap?” asked Sam, exasperated. 

Both brothers turned as a huge black car rumbled up nearby. “Speaking of bigshots,” Sam muttered darkly as the passengers emerged from the back of the town car, There were two of them, a shorter man, and a tall, slim man, his dark hair arranged in a topknot. The shorter of the two stood, leaning heavily on a cane, apparently urging on the taller of the pair, who reached inside and pulled out a scabbard.

“Nice wheels,” commented Dean. “Not as nice as mine, but....”

“Street fighters,” Sam grumbled, going back to whatever not-porn he was studying on his laptop. “I'm gonna put skeezy bastards like that away when I'm a prosecutor.” 

Dean leaned back and guzzled enough soda to plant cavities in half his molars. “I thought you were gonna be a defense attorney and magically heal the innocent.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.” Dean ignored his idiot brother for a moment and studied the two dudes who had emerged from the town car. The taller one had slung his scabbard on his back and stood up, long and lean and appearing every goddam inch the badass. Dean, who was openly staring now, emitted a low whistle, causing his brother to cringe. And then the guy stalked off while the shorter one limped along behind. 

Sam, in his agitation, had seized his wilted caesar salad and began to munch, plastic fork spearing dead lettuce. “Why we have to attend class alongside guys who are no better than felons-”

“Sammy!” You could almost see the light bulb click on atop Dean’s head.

“What?” The white fork made a small thunk as it got tossed down into the clear plastic container. Sam's arms were crossed against his chest, a look of disbelief on his handsome features. His words came out measured. “Dean, don't tell me you have an idea.”

“I have an idea!”

“No. No no no. Dean. That's the deal, you are not supposed to have ideas while we're in college.”

“The street fighter dude? That guy's a student, so he's eligible. And he knows how to handle a sword....”

“Dean.” Sam was over the table, grabbing his seriously mentally deficient brother by the collar. “Look at me. You cannot recruit a street fighter for the fencing team.”

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Who's gonna let their kid play alongside.... Alongside a killer!”

“If depends.”

“On what?”

Dean's eyes shown bright as blades. “On whether we win!”

 

“Gabriel, don't lie to me. _What happened?_ ”

“Look, Cassie, I don't know what happened last night. That guy was an idiot, probably forgot to check his shielding.”

Castiel stopped on a dime and turned, causing Gabriel to nearly collide with him. “Shielding? His shielding was to blame? Not the blade setting?” Castiel loomed over him, his eyes blazing.   
“Uriel was set up to at least nine Teslas.” Electrical blades modulated sharpness by adjustment of a setting on the hilt. The dullest settings were one and two Tesla units, the levels often used for practicing by non-professionals. Settings as high as eight and nine could be lethal, and a blade set to ten, depending on the skill of the sword smith, could split human hairs.

Gabriel threw up his hands. “I got no clue what happened, Cassie.”

“As my manager, aren't you supposed to know these things, Gabriel?”

“Maybe.... Look. Maybe Uriel fucked with his settings. I dunno.”

“Gabriel.” Castiel drew close, his voice a ragged whisper. “I am not a killer.”

“I know brother. I know.”

A group of female students passed them by, edging away, as people tended to do, when they saw what Castiel was. He directed his gaze downwards, as he always did, so he could tune out glances.

Gabriel, however, had no such qualms. He picked up on the disgusted stare from one of the girls, a surly redhead. “You want some help?” he snapped.

“What?” she fired back as her friends flinched away.

“Getting the stick out of your ass,” he growled, waving his cane at her.

“Fuck off, street trash.”

“Yeah? I can’t figure out what’s uglier, your expression or those boots.” Gabriel pointed his cane at the boots she and all her friends were wearing: they had a fake seam traced down the side, as if someone had been hitting the boot with a sword, as was the habit of duelists.

She glared, as her friends tugged her away, muttering no doubt about how the likes of Castiel and Gabriel shouldn’t mix in with the _nice_ people. “Wellman Wellies. People who wear those crappy boots oughta be shot. With a gun! In the interest of bad taste.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Gabriel.” 

Gabriel was still glowering after the girls, as if he could make them melt through sheer force of will. He turned back to face Castiel. “Don’t let those chicks get under your skin. People like that can fuck themselves.”

“That’s not what I meant. And you know it.” 

“Hey! Can we talk to you?” Castiel turned to see tall, athletic-looking guy run up, out of breath. Another even taller man hurried after him, uncertain expression on his face. 

The first guy stuck out a hand. “I'm Dean-”

“You’re Dean Winchester, captain of this university's fencing team,” Castiel crisply informed him, regarding Dean's outstretched arm with some curiosity. He sent out a tentative hand, and Dean gripped it firmly in a shake.

“Great, you already know me! And this is my little brother, Sam.” Dean turned to indicate the gangly scarecrow who had pattered after him like a Doberman puppy.

“ _Little_ brother,” Castiel repeated, savoring the first word as his gaze drifted upwards to behold the younger Winchester. “Is he on the fencing team as well?”

“Uh, no, I don’t fence. Not any more. But I, uh, root for the team,” Sam put in lamely. Dean shifted on his feet, and Sam awkwardly extended a hand to Castiel as well.

“It's a pity. You would have an excellent reach,” Castiel commented, giving Sam a good once-over. After another odd pause he shook Sam's hand. “I'm Castiel. This is _my_ brother, Gabriel.” Gabriel glared up at everyone, obviously more than a little annoyed to suddenly find himself stranded in Land of the Giants. 

“Well, look, Dean Whatever,” said Gabriel, “we're kinda busy right now, so if you’ll excuse-”

“I'm recruiting,” Dean blurted. He stared at Castiel, whose features suddenly traced a smile.

“What? No way!” said Gabriel as Sam resolutely stood just in back of Dean and stared at the ground.

“Recruiting? For the fencing team?” asked Castiel, whose eyes bored into Dean as if he was the only person present.

“Yeah!” Dean took in a breath. “See, we just had a couple members lose eligibility. I won't lie to you, they were doping, and I think that's bullshit. But we’ve had some injuries too, so now I don't have enough members to fill the roster-“

“Isn't this university’s team consistently ranked the lowest in the division?” It was sad but true. On most college campuses, especially in the sword-obsessed Midwest, membership in the fencing team was all but guaranteed cock-of-the-walk status, and the team captain was revered as a local saint. But the Lawrence squad’s hapless history and string of major losses had turned recruitment into a trial, which only served to weaken the team further. They were on their third coach in three years, Victor “Victory” Henricksen. It was Victor who had uncovered the team members who had been doping and kicked them off, leading to a lot more colorful nicknames for him among the students and alumni.

“That's the thing! It doesn't have to be that way. We're really on the brink this year. I can feel it. Yeah, we had to toss aside a couple of losers, but the people who stayed? This is a winning team, Cas. These guys have the skill, they have the heart. If I can't fill up the roster, they don't get the chance. And they deserve it.”

Without dropping Dean's gaze, Castiel let his head drop slightly to the left. “That's very … inspiring, Dean.”

“Hey, doofus. His name is _Castiel_ ,” hissed Gabriel.

But Dean only had eyes for Castiel. “Look, don't take my word for it. Come and meet the team. I'll give you my number. Hey, Sammy, you got paper?”

Sam, looking dubious, pulled a much wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. Dean grabbed it away and ripped off a section, and then gestured for a pen, which, heaving a sigh, Sam also supplied. 

“You’re not on academic probation or anything?” Dean asked. “Though, it wouldn’t be a problem. Just checking.”

“My bro is on the Dean's List!” Gabriel bragged.

“Oh? You a student too, Gabriel?” asked Dean.

Gabriel literally snorted. “Hell no, Deano. I’m his agent.” 

“Why would a college student need an agent?” Sam piped up.

“Because he’s a champion, Gigantor. Something you Lame-Hawks wouldn’t know anything about.”

“I let him serve in the role keep him out of trouble,” Castiel said quietly. “It doesn’t always work,” he added as Gabriel gave him a dirty look.

Dean handed over the scrap of paper with his number. “Call me. Promise. You won’t regret it.” And then he and Sam moved off.

“He’s already regretting it,” Gabriel shouted after them. He turned to Castiel and snatched for the paper, but Castiel was quicker, holding it up. “Oh, tell me you’re not gonna listen to that loser! You have a career! Zachariah even bent the rules so you could go to college. Why would you join a losing team?”

Cas held the paper up out of Gabriel’s reach and studied his older brother. “So, you would advise me differently if it were a winning team?”

“Well. Yeah. I mean, maybe.”

Cas crumpled the paper and stuck it into his pocket. “If I’m on the team, then we’ll win. So we’re set.” And then he marched off in the opposite direction from the one Dean and Sam had taken, Gabriel hot on his heels.

 

“I gotta go meet Jess. And by the way, if I haven’t told you lately, you’re an idiot.”

Dean was beaming. “Come on, Sammy. I’m gonna be the hero. You know it. I just saved the team.”

“And where are you going in such a hurry? Let me guess: is it female?”

“Female and redhead, Sam. A sure thing.”

“Sure thing, huh?”

“She’s the love of my life. For the next eight hours, at least.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, you get bored with Miss Eight Hour Love, Jess and I are doing pizza and videos with Uncle Bobby.”

“You old folks, don’t wait up for me, Sammy,” said Dean, who charged off towards the dining hall, leaving his brother fussing and fretting. He didn’t begrudge Sammy being Mr. Monogamous. Jess was a doll, and way too cute and smart for a loser like his little brother. But he just couldn’t see getting attached to someone when he was currently living surrounded by so many fetching someones. He soon found her – was it Rhonda or Rhoda? – surrounded by her flock of friends a table near the windows. “Hey, you!” said Dean, sliding in next to her and pulling the chair up as close as it could get. The whole group seemed to be aflutter about some damn thing. He grabbed a French fry from her plate.

“Did you see those _street fighters_?” she asked.

“They’re so gross,” said one of her friends.

“Why do they let them on campus with us? Everybody knows those guys are illiterate.”

“The guy back there?” asked Dean. He wavered for a long moment between a sure thing with a redhead and stirring up a little trouble. As it always did, trouble won out. “He’s on the Dean’s List. Which I bet you’re not.” He grabbed another fry.

“Wait, how do you know?” asked Rhonda or Rhoda.

“I’m recruiting him,” Dean told her, grabbing her and pulling her into his lap.

The love of his life for the next eight hours pushed back and stared at him. And then she gave a hoot of laughter. “Oh, you’re such an asshole, Dean. I almost believed you.” Several of her friends started giggling as well, although some of the others just looked uncomfortable.

“My team is a member short,” said Dean. “He’s filling out the roster.” He reached for another fry, but the redhead yanked back the plate. 

“Dean. You don’t mix with that sort of people.”

Dean sat back and smiled. “What sort of people. Exactly?”

“They've been training since birth.”

“Before! I hear they breed them with one another,” said another girl, a dirty blonde.

“Ewww.”

Dean pulled the plate nearer and grabbed some more fries. “Is that so? 'Cause I've heard a lot of them are orphans.”

“The ones that are too ugly or deformed for the brothels,” Rhonda or Rhoda told him firmly.

“Does that even make sense? I mean, if they're deformed, how do they fight?”

“Why are you being impossible, Dean?”

Dean held up his hands. “I'm just curious. I've heard a bunch of trash talk about those guys, but....” Dean shrugged. “I believe what I see, you know?”

The love of his life wiggled out of his lap. “You get that guy on your team, you’ll regret it,” she warned.

Dean smiled and grabbed a handful of French fries.

 

“Is biology destiny?”

The microphone squealed with feedback, an the class cringed.

Castiel stared at his laptop. He was sitting in his usual seat near the back of the lecture hall. He wished this room had windows. Psychology was usually his favorite topic, but he didn't like this class. He simply didn't care for the professor, Dr. Jaunoeil. Cas couldn't put his finger on it, but if Jaunoeil had been a street fighting opponent, he would have insisted on double-checking the settings on the guy's blade. 

He just plain didn't trust the man. 

Castiel sometimes got inklings like this about people. Feelings, good or bad. He wasn't sure why. Maybe his biology _was_ destiny. Or maybe it was all the years in the cage, where sussing an opponent could be a matter of life or death.

Castiel stared, unseeing, at his lecture notes. Dean Winchester seemed like a good person.

He wasn't quite certain why his mind was drifting towards the fencing team captain. Gabriel was probably right: joining a losing team was a stupid idea.

Unbidden, his hand went to his pants pocket. He extracted a crumpled piece of paper. He spread it out on his laptop keyboard, carefully pressing out the wrinkles.

He frowned. 

Quietly, he shut his laptop, shoving it into his bag. And then he rose and silently slipped out of the classroom.

“Uh-oh, guess he had an urgent fight to get to!” came the amplified voice from the podium.

The class's nervous laughter echoed in Castiel's ears.

 

“It’s probably pretty lame compared to what you’re used to, but it does the job. Anyway, you can stow your gear here while we warm up.”

Castiel looked around. They gym smelled about like every gym ever in history, but it was clean and tidy, if spare. “You might be surprised what I’m used to,” he muttered, causing Dean to flash a puzzled glance. He dropped his gym bag where Dean had indicated, and, after a moment’s hesitation, his scabbard as well, and then walked over to where Dean was unlocking a large glass-fronted cabinet. 

“You’ll have to use shared equipment for now,” Dean was saying apologetically. “Not as nice as your fancy blade, but yours isn’t regulation. Have you used-“

“I’m familiar with standard dueling blades, thanks,” Cas told him, smiling slightly. The display, with its racks of well used swords, some with taped up handles, reminded him of training, back when he had still been very young. As Dean stepped back and watched, Castiel traced skilled hands over the selection. He picked one, hefted it, checking the weight and balance, sighted along the blade, and then replaced it, and then chose another, repeating the process.

“Looking for something in particular?” Dean asked. 

He didn’t appear to be rushing Castiel along, he seemed truly interested, so Castiel told him, “Something an old sensei, Joshua, taught me. When you find the right one, you’ll know it.” He picked up a third blade, an especially battered and taped up old sword. He hefted it. The weight was perfect. He carefully sighted along the blade. Despite the obvious wear, it was still straight and true, the mark of a good smith. 

He clicked on the blade using the switch on the hilt and heard the soft hum. The small hairs on his wrist stood up. Out of old habit, he let it swing down and tapped his boot with the flat side a couple times to make sure his shielding was working. 

“You turn it on to check it?” asked Dean.

“Never strike with a dead blade,” Castiel told him, repeating another of Joshua’s oft-heard aphorisms. He cleared his mind, and ran through a few forms, standing erect, letting the blade drop for _prime_ , then _seconde, tierce, quarte, quinte, sixte…._

“I could watch you do this all day.” Castiel shook his head and glanced over at Dean, who was leaning against the cabinet, just smiling and staring. 

Feeling oddly self-conscious, he shrugged. “You must be bored of seeing this.” But Dean didn’t look anything like bored. They locked eyes, staring for a moment too long, and then Dean cleared his throat and went to close the cabinet. “So, you find the one you like?” he asked.

“I think so,” whispered Castiel. “Uh, I mean, yes, I’ll use this sword.”

“All right. I’ll take you through a spar, just to show you what we do. I think this will all be pretty familiar.” Dean busied himself with drawing his own sword, switching it on, and engaging his shielding. As all sword fighters did out of habit, he bounced the flat end of his blade against the side of his boot, the buzz reassuring that his shielding was engaged. “I’m setting ‘er to three,” he commented, fiddling with the hilt. 

Cas adjusted his own sword down to training levels, and instinctively batted it on a his boot again. Since duelists’s shoes inevitably ended up worn on the side, it had become fashionable to manufacture certain expensive designer footwear with pre-worn creases. The trend was a stupid one, in Cas’s opinion, as he could spot a genuine fellow duelist from a wannabe a mile away.

Dean had finished his preparation and was strolling over towards the mat, indicating Castiel should follow. “This is the practice piste here, you can see the lines running up and down. Now, if you wanna get into en garde stance, I’ll show you- Whoa!”

Cas was just inches from Dean, staring him down, blade poised and humming. “What?” he asked, lowering his sword a fraction from the _en garde_ position.

Dean’s face broke into a grin. “Formal dueling, buddy.” He gestured with a hand. “Blade length away.”

“Oh. My apologies.” Slightly embarrassed, Cas stepped back a full pace. His body was so used to the street fighting moves he hadn’t given it a second’s thought. Without Dean having to tell him he adjusted his stance to compensate, lengthening his line.

Dean was smiling and nodding, which Castiel supposed must be positive. “Yeah, that’s good. That’s fucking perfect, actually. But I gotta remember that in-your-face move.” He gave a low, impressed whistle. “That’s pretty intimidating.”

Castiel relaxed his wrist and let his blade sag aside from vertical yet again. “You think so?” Dean hadn’t really appeared the least bit intimidated. Quite the contrary.

“Some time, you gotta promise to teach me some of your street fighting moves. Because, damn, that’s nice.” Castiel puffed up ever so slightly: maybe it was the slight roll Dean had given to the word, “nice.” “Now, you done this before?” Dean asked.

In truth, at one time or another Castiel had been put the paces through most every sword fighting technique the world had to offer. As a sensei, Joshua had been pretty exhaustive. “Yes,” he answered, “though I’m probably a little rusty.” It was strange and slightly disorienting to be facing an opponent out in the open like this, not pressed up close inside the sweat and the heat of the cage. 

“Works for me,” said Dean. “Let’s keep it simple, just go through the basic attacks, okay? You attack and I’ll parry.”

Dean leaned over and kicked the automatic timer on the floor nearby with his foot, and then got himself back to his starting position. The listened to it clicking off the time. At the signal, they executed a salute to each other and then to imaginary judges, went to _en garde_ , and then….

“Whoa!” Dean’s eyes crossed down at the blade across his neck. “Think that’s a hit.”

Castiel was already stepping back, peering at Dean, checking his reaction. “Was that .. all right?”

Dean now regarding him, wide-eyed. “Holy fuck. I didn’t even see you move, Cas!”

Castiel found his lips tugging upward at the sound of the nickname. A small sense of hope tugged at his chest. “Then it was okay?”

“Okay?” laughed Dean. “If this is you when you’re ‘rusty,’” he said, making air quotes around the last word, “I can’t wait to see you warmed up.”

“Should we go again?” They went for several more rounds, Dean managing to parry a few of Castiel’s attacks this time. Castiel found the exercise oddly calming, and was soon lost in his customary training bubble. 

Dean, he noticed, had a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He wasn’t quite certain why he noticed, but he found it pleasing, especially when Dean’s nose crinkled as he smiled. And Dean smiled often.

The pleasant mood was broken unfortunately when they heard the door opening and two figures entered the deserted gym. It was the boy Castiel remembered from the other day: Sam, Dean’s lanky brother. He was holding hands with a pretty blonde girl.

“Hey, Sammy! Hey, Jess!” Dean bellowed. He grabbed a towel and blotted the worst of his sweat, and then leaned over and took a good chug from a water bottle.

Castiel stood back, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He was well used to people frowning at him, and edging back. Sam had seemed disapproving the other day, and he was certain he was soon to be on the wrong end of a hostile glance – fearful or resentful or just plain disgusted - from the girlfriend. He cursed his luck. It had been one of the rare instances since he’d started college that he had actually been good mood. 

“How’s it going?” asked Sam evenly.

“Great so far! Hey, Cas, this is Jess, my brother’s better half.”

To Castiel’s shock, instead of shrinking back, Jess strode forward, confidently extending a slim hand. “It’s good to meet you, Cas,” she said, using Dean’s nickname for him. Castiel gently took her hand, shaking it tentatively, as if it were blown glass. “Dean was really excited about you joining the team.”

“Really?” Castiel looked between Jess and Dean. He struggled to regain some composure. “Uh. Thank you, Jess. It’s nice to meet you too.”

“So, you think Henricksen is gonna be okay with this?” asked Sam, who carried a worried expression.

“The Coach is gonna shit!” Dean told him. “This is gonna work like sick. Trust me.”

“Dean’s ‘trust me’ means don’t trust him,” Jess stage-whispered to Castiel, who found himself blushing. 

Sam threw his head back and laughed, and walked over to throw an arm around Jess’s shoulders. “She knows your tricks, jerk,” he told Dean.

“Bitch,” Dean shot back at Sam.

“So, you sure you wanna do this, Cas?” Sam asked him. “I know it must be kind of a comedown.”

“Sammy, don’t be a downer,” Dean sighed.

Castiel looked around in some wonder. Sam looked concerned, but oddly enough, seemed concerned _for_ Castiel, and not about his presumably toxic influence on his brother and girlfriend. They barely knew him, and yet they already had a nickname for him. He thought back on Joshua’s training. See every challenge as an opportunity, he had said.

“Will your coach approve of this?”

“Henricksen?” Dean scoffed. “No problem. He’s a pussycat.”

“Then … I believe I will join.

“Hey, great!” said Dean, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “You'll see Cas. This is gonna be awesome!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fencing team gains a new member, and we witness an academic duel of honor.

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 2 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta. This chapter contains violence which some may find upsetting.  
 **Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** The formal dueling in this one is a mish-mosh of modern fencing and kendo. Street fighting is an unholy blend of mixed martial arts and samurai movies I watched as a kid.

 

“I am not doping!”

“I know, Benny, I know,” said Dean as the big man huffed and puffed at his side. The gym smelled of sweat and ozone from ignited swords.

Benny's pain was operatic in its intensity. “Well tell mother-loving Henricksen! I’m danged awful tired of him chasing me around everywhere with a god darned pee cup!”

Dean tried hard not to chortle. “Don’t worry, I got it,” he told Benny. “And besides, there’s no way he’d kick off another teammate, not when we got a _full roster_!”

Benny looked skeptical. Gordon, who had just come up behind him, asked, “Wait, full roster? Since when?”

Dean somehow managed to look as smug as he felt, which was approximately punch-in-the-face smug. “Since just now, when I recruited our new secret weapon.”

“How did you manage that, Winchester?” said Gordon, Benny echoing his skeptical expression.

“All will be revealed. Just give me a minute.” Grinning mysteriously, he sauntered over to the office with “Victor Henricksen” scribbled out on a piece of paper in magic marker and stuck to the door with a scrap of electrical tape. “Hey, coach, you in there?” asked Dean, knocking and sticking his head inside.

“Whatever the hell it is, Winchester, no!” barked Coach Henricksen, who motioned for him to close the door. Victor took another puff from his contraband cigarette, and then flicked some ashes in the potted plant behind him.

Dean smirked. “You’re gonna kill that plant.”

Victor snorted in derision. “Who could tell? It’s a fucking rubber plant. Now, why the hell is your lazy ass in my office chair instead of out there on the piste where it belongs?”

“I just filled the roster.”

Victor stopped in mid-puff, studying Dean with every scrap of suspicion he could muster. “Why don’t I know anything about this?”

Dean studied the ceiling. “I used some … unorthodox recruiting methods. But it doesn’t matter, the guy’s great. I tried sparring with him, and I couldn’t get past him. He’s … amazing!” Dean's eyes went wide.

“Huh. You gonna fight him or date him, Winchester?” 

Dean laughed, and might have colored slightly. He genuinely liked the coach, but the guy was USDA Prime hard ass. “Um. You'll see. He’s coming to practice today. And all the more reason why you can't gank Benny. We’ve got the people: we’re playing.”

Victor sneered. “I can and will gank that little doper. Guy is wider than he is tall! I just need to figure out what his game is.”

Dean looked at his tightly wound coach with affection. “Coach, I guarantee, Benny is not juicing.”

But Henricksen was having none of it. “How the hell do you know that? You follow him to the men’s room?”

Dean grinned, the cat who had just grabbed the canary. “Have you met Benny’s parents?”

Henricksen leaned forward, shaking his head, leaving a wreath of smoke about.

“Well, I have. His father? Spitting image.” Dean spread his hands a Benny-length apart. “And his mother-”

“What? Her too?” Victor flashed a skeptical look at Dean. He rubbed his cheeks and frowned. “Even the beard?”

“Even the beard.”

Henricksen coughed to (very badly) conceal a chuckle. “Okay, I'll take your word for now, Winchester. But I want a clean squad. Even if we can't field a team, no juicing. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now let’s go meet your mystery man.”

 

“Freaking Boy Scout,” muttered Benny. He said so in reference to their coach, Henricksen, whose notorious intolerance of drugging had placed the team in their current status of dodgy eligibility, and who had, as a consequence, become a popular local dartboard effigy.

“Guy's got his head so far up his ass,” muttered Gordon. 

“Who's got their head up your ass, Gordon?” hooted Ash. He thumped his gym bag down beside Gordon’s and Benny’s. “I wouldn't brag about it.”

“Fuck off, Mullet Man,” Gordon wittily retorted.

“You're just jealous of the radiance of my plumage,” said Ash, shaking his head like a Cover Girl. “Though I guess I'm nothin’ to _that_ guy.” Benny and Gordon, who were standing in the middle of the court, followed Ash's pointing finger over to where some dickhead street fighter-wannabe with his hair in a topknot leaned casually against the low wall that divided the court from the bleachers. He was talking quietly to another man seated nearby.

“A freaking street fighter?” said Benny, unconsciously tapping the crucifix he always wore around his neck. “What the blessed mother Mary is he doin' in here in my gym?” He inclined his head, and he, Gordon and Ash sauntered over to confront the newcomer. Benny stopped a few feet in front of the asshole and made a big show of looking him up and down. “Nice hair, brother.”

The lips flicked into the barest trace of a smile. “Thank you.” 

The man did not move, nor flinch, although his companion, up in the bleacher seats, put his hands through his hair and sighed, “I told you this was a dumb idea, Cassie.”

“So what exactly are you supposed to be, buddy?” asked Gordon the dude in the topknot.

“Castiel,” he intoned in a voice that rumbled with Old Testament fury.

“I'm Benny,” the same supplied. “Gordon. Ash,” he added with slight nods to either side. “And what exactly are you doin’ here, _Castiel?_ ”

You couldn't see his eyes very well under all the hair, but his gaze was piercing. “Waiting.” There was no further clarification.

“Waitin' for what, exactly?” asked Ash.

“He's waiting for the coach, moron,” grumbled the guy sitting in the stands.

“Hey, you need someone to show you manners, midget?” raged Gordon.

“I'll show you some manners,” said the short man. He shot to his feet, looking like he meant to leap the barrier and tackle Gordon right then and there.

“Gabriel!” Castiel threw an arm out to hold Gabriel back. Benny, Gordon and Ash all instinctively hopped back. There was something unsettling about the lightning fast way Castiel moved, and the boys all now glanced nervously at one another.

“Cas, you made it!” called Dean from the other side of the court. He was strolling out, along with Coach Henricksen, big old shit-eating grin on his face.

“Gosh darnit, here comes Coach Pee Cup,” grumbled Benny, causing Castiel to turn and tilt his head quizzically at him. 

“I take it this is the new recruit?” asked Henricksen. Castiel stood up straight to greet the coach, taking his extended hand to shake. “I’m Coach Henricksen.”

“This here is a _Cas-ti-el,_ ” Benny supplied, infusing each syllable with its requisite southern syrup.

“And you are?” Henricksen asked Gabriel.

“Here to talk my idiot little brother out of being an idiot.” He leapt gracefully over the barrier, although, if you looked closely, he landed favoring one leg, and flourished his silver-tipped cane. He emitted a sigh, and then held out his hand. “Gabriel. My brother is-”

“Whoa, dudes!” said Ash, who had been madly pushing buttons on his cell phone ever since Castiel had spoken his name. “136 W, 84 KO. Castiel, man, you're epic awesome.” He held up the phone screen, his eyes shining. The other boys gathered around, astonished expressions on their faces.

Cas shrugged with what appeared to be genuine modesty. “I've done all right.”

“But my question is, can you handle classic fencing?” asked Henricksen, pointing to Castiel's boots. “We don't do any of that fancy footwork crap. You'll have to stay on the ground and fight the old fashioned way.”

“Old fashioned? Street fighting is thought to have its roots in antiquity,” Castiel told him. “But my sensei was insistent on training me in every aspect of sword play. I believe I can adapt.”

“Well, you can talk, can't you?” grinned Henricksen.

“He'll end up on his ass,” said Gordon.

Castiel stepped in front of Gordon and then, placing on hand behind his back, made an elaborate bow.

“Hey, did he just-” asked Ash.

Gordon hopped back a step. “Uh, are you … _challenging_ me?”

“I believe that's the correct etiquette?” said Castiel, side-eyeing Dean.

“Cas just challenged you, Gordo,” Dean told Gordon, who glowered. “You gonna accept?” There was really no honorable way to refuse at this point, which Gordon knew all too well. 

The entire party wandered over to a mat, where a visibly agitated Gordon tapped Benny as his second. As was called for by the tradition, Castiel handed over his blade to Benny. “Nice!” said Benny, giving the sword a bit more elaborate once-over than was really called for. 

“You just get this dueling blade, Cas?” asked Dean, looking over Benny's shoulder as much as was possible with such a brawny guy.

Cas nodded. “Our smith constructed it specially for me. He is familiar with my … requirments.”

“Hand it over,” Gabriel demanded of Gordon. 

“Oh, you don't really need to do that,” Gordon grumbled. Gabriel arched an eyebrow to emphasize, yes, you do.

“Hand it over, Walker,” said Henricksen, patting Gordon on the shoulder. “This is my court, so this is gonna be a clean goddamn duel. We’re just gonna go one round, no two of three bullshit. You two, set blades to three Tesla, and _that's it_.”

Cas and Gordon nodded, even though it was tradition that duelists determine the setting, and it was the absolute wimpiest setting to boot. The weapons were returned, and both boys activated their shielding, bouncing the flat sides of their blades on their boots to test it. “Good luck,” Dean whispered to Cas, who turned and, to Dean's utter surprise, edged a small smile at him.

“Let's get to _en garde_ positions,” hollered Henricksen. “No, Cas, that's too close!” 

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” said Castiel, talking a long step back from a now obviously rattled Gordon. 

“Don't he know-” Benny whispered.

“He knows,” grinned Gabriel, pointing to his own head. Dean realized with a start Castiel was deliberately fucking with Gordon. “Good boy,” he whispered.

Castiel was now back to his ready position, looking even smoother and more graceful than he had the other day. Gordon, by contrast, now appeared flustered and angry. The two boys saluted each other, and then the small gathering of spectators.

_“En garde. Pret. Allez!”_ yelled Henricksen. Like a lot of duels, it ended quickly. In a way, Gordon did better than Dean at this first confrontation: at least he managed to move before Castiel had his blade in the kill position. 

“I- I wasn't ready,” Gordon gulped as Castiel drew the slim blade back from his neck.

“Oh, bull puckey, Gordo,” said Benny. “You just got your ass reamed by KO Cas here.”

That earned Benny a full flavored head-tilt, something Dean was rapidly learning as part of Castiel's repertoire.

Henricksen clapped his hands. “Okay, what if we quit fucking around and actually get to some practice. Oh, and nice of you to make it here, ladies!” the coach hollered as a group of girls, including Jess, entered the court. “This is the rest of my team,” he told Castiel. “This is-”

“So you're the street fighter?” gushed a tiny blonde, who was already standing too close to Castiel, jutting out her hand.

“That's Miss Joanna Beth Harvelle,” sighed Henricksen.

“Jo!” she corrected as Cas shook. “And this is Pam-”

“Pamela,” corrected a pretty brunette woman who was oddly enough, wearing sunglasses indoors.

“And Charlene.”

“And what are you _really_ called, Charlene?” Castiel asked the bubbly redhead.

“I'm Charlie!” she grinned. “I cosplayed as a street fighter for Halloween!”

“Did you?”

“And nearly cut her own thumb off with the blade,” cracked Pamela, pushing her sunglasses up her nose.

“And I'm Meg,” said a dark-haired girl who seemed to have crept up behind everybody. “But you can call me ... Meg,” she added, holding Castiel's hand just a bit too long.

“Meg, begone demon,” said Benny, stepping between her and Castiel and holding his crucifix up in her face, getting a laugh from Gordon and spiteful glances from some of the other girls. 

“Can we quit the horse shit and get cracking?” said Henricksen. He was answered by a chorus of grumbles, some of it good-natured, some of it not so much. “Someone show the new man some drills?”

“I got it!” piped up Jo, who was already hauling Castiel off to a practice mat. Charlie trailed along after them.

“C’mon, Pammy,” said Jess, who nodded towards the bleachers. 

“Mind if I join you, ladies?” asked Gabriel, who had suddenly appeared between the two of them, leaning on his cane. “I mean no harm, just a poor old cripple.”

“Yeah, right,” said Pamela, who nonetheless raised no objection to Gabriel inserting himself in their group.

Dean thought for a second about extricating Castiel from Jo’s clutches, but quickly decided his new friend would be better off learning to fend for himself. Instead, Dean paired up with Gordon for a few spars, but noticed his partner began to appear increasingly distracted.

“Come on, Gordo. Eye on the pointy end,” Dean urged at one point after Gordon had failed, once again, to parry a rather half-hearted attack. Dean peered over to where Castiel and Jo were working, and immediately spotted the problem. “Let’s take five. I’m gonna go talk to Cas,” he told Gordon, hoping he would catch Dean’s meaning and stay out of it. He strolled over to where Castiel appeared to be groping Jo while Charlie watched in apparent awe.

“Remember,” Castiel was telling Jo as he yanked an arm back. “You want to reduce your profile for defense, but increase it during ready position. You want to appear as large as possible, in order to intimidate your opponent.” He pointed to his own head. “Fearing larger creatures is instinctual.”

Jo nodded, her teeth gritted as Castiel gripped her hips in attempt to reposition her pelvis. “It would help if you could find it in yourself to relax.”

“You guys doing okay?” Dean asked, trying not to laugh.

“Yes. Duh! Cas is helping me with my stance,” Jo told him.

“Correct posture is everything,” Castiel lectured. “Now, how does that feel?”

“I feel bigger!” said Jo confidently.

“Try an attack,” said Castiel.

Jo swung wildly with her blade. Dean cringed as he listened to the hum. “Good,” said Cas, though he batted her away like a fly. “You!” he ordered Charlie, who was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees. “You’re a better match for Jo.” Charlie frowned, and pointed to herself, and looked pleadingly at Dean.

“You’re on the team. Last I checked,” Dean told her.

Charlie stumbled to her feet, and then shakily took out her sword, which she then held up in some semblance of an _en garde_ position. Castiel scowled at Dean, who mouthed, “Later.” 

“All right, again, Jo,” Castiel told her. _“En gard. Pret. Allez.”_ Jo grunted as she swung, and Charlie shrieked, dropping her sword and falling on her ass, to the general delight of everyone else in the room. Castiel shot a glance at Dean, but then stepped back as he was tackled by Jo. 

“Thank you thank you thank you! You’re awesome!” Jo gushed. 

Castiel flushed bright red as he gently pried her off. “Um,” he muttered.

Henricksen’s whistle sounded. “Okay you clowns, quit joking around! Back to work.”

“Jo, why don’t you spar with Gordon for a while?” Dean suggested, as Gordon was now nearby, looking none too pleased at Castiel, who was helping Charlie to her feet.

“Sorry, I’m not very good,” Charlie confessed.

“Charlie, what about you practice with Meg?” said Dean, to a violent shaking of red hair. Dean sighed. “Well, how about this: what about you go keep the girls company?” he asked, gesturing towards the stands, where Gabriel was now engrossed in conversation with Pamela and Jess. She nodded happily and scampered off. Dean inclined his head towards the exit, and, though looking a little puzzled, Castiel followed him out. 

“Aren’t we supposed to use this hour for practice?” Castiel asked as soon as they were out of the door.

“The session’s almost over. And you frankly don’t need a whole lot of practice. I thought maybe we’d run down to the cafeteria for a burger or something?”

“I’ve- I’ve never eaten at the cafeteria.”

Dean was taken aback. “What? Really?”

Castiel shrugged, a little sheepishly. “I get dropped off to go to class. And then I get picked up again right afterwards. They all thought it would be best to minimize my exposure on campus.”

“Oh, so you don’t hang around? Well, you’re not missing much. But the burgers are okay. Come on.” 

It might be supposed that two boys walking across campus carrying dueling swords would attract attention, but as it happened it was fashionable in those days even for non-duelists to carry at least a decorative sidearm. However Castiel’s distinctive hairstyle, as always, caused people to give him a wide berth.

“So, a couple things you should know,” Dean told him, “not that you’re doing anything wrong, but just to keep the peace. First, Charlie’s on the team as a temporary replacement for Pamela. My brother actually met her, playing an RPG. She doesn’t much like it, but we’ve had a hard time filling our roster lately, especially with female players.”

“All right,” said Cas. “I, uh, haven’t actually played with … female duelists before.”

“Yeah, that’s the other complication. See, Gordon and Jo are … a thing.”

Castiel squinted, completely baffled. “A … _thing?”_

Dean searched his mind to try to sum up a full metal Melrose Place situation in fifty words or less. “Yeah. They tend to break up and make up. A lot. Most of us have stopped keeping track.”

“Break up…. Oh, they’re a romantic couple?” asked Castiel.

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, Cas, you know, boys and girls and that stuff?” 

Castiel looked more puzzled than anything. “You call me Cas?”

“Yeah, sure. Oh, hey, it’s not insulting or anything?” asked Dean. He knew from Uncle Bobby that sword fighters as a class had a long list of various bizarre things they found dishonorable. Castiel seemed easygoing enough, but Dean didn't want to chance it.

“I don’t find it so, no,” said Castiel, a small smile playing on his lips. “My brothers call me Cassie, which I do find annoying.”

“Yeah, Sammy doesn’t like it when I use his nickname, but I guess he’ll always be my little brother, despite being big as a goddamn bull moose.”

They had reached the entrance of the dining hall. They encountered a knot of students just filing out. Their shouting and laughter stopped as they all spotted Castiel, and then made to edge nervously around him.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Castiel told Dean.

“What, you afraid you’ll be left alone at the lunch table? You’re with me. And the rest of them: fuck them. It’s dumb. They’re all dressing up like fake street fighters this year, but none of them can handle the real thing? I mean, seriously.” And with that, Dean yanked Castiel into the dining hall, where they soon had plastic trays stacked with cheeseburgers and greasy French fries and sugary sodas. They set their heavily laden trays on an empty table and, stowing their weapons on the floor beneath them as was customary, sat down to eat.

“See, all the four food groups. You got grease, you got salt, you got bacon-“ Dean explained, grabbing a slice of bacon off of his burger.

“We don’t generally eat such fare,” said Castiel, squinting at a French fry. His reluctance to enter the building had quickly been quelled by his burning curiosity about the spread offered at the cafeteria. It had taken five minutes for Dean to pry him away from the espresso machine. 

“What, do they keep you guys on protein shakes or something?”

“I usually make soups or stews. Joshua believes – believed – in fresh ingredients.”

“Good thing he didn’t work here.” Dean eyed Cas, who seemed to regard his lunch as if it were an art exhibit. “You gonna quit picking and eat something?”

Castiel gave his hamburger a dubious glance. He watched closely as Dean took a large bite of his own dinner, and then carefully placed the bun atop his burger and bit off a small chunk. “That isn’t so bad,” he remarked, wiping his chin with a paper napkin. 

“Are you kidding? Nothing better than a burger. Except maybe apple pie.”

“Gabriel likes sweets. It’s sometimes difficult for him to make his weight.”

“Oh, that’s right, you guys fight by weight classes, right?” Castiel just nodded, as his mouth was now full. He noticed Dean was dipping his fries in a dab of ketchup on his plate, so imitated the gesture, experimentally dragging a French fry through the condiment. “They keep you on a diet?” Dean asked.

“They actually want me to go up a class. Uh, put on weight?”

Dean frowned. What that usually meant was more than pigging out, it meant doping. “And … you gonna do it?”

“No. When you bulk up, it slows you down. Joshua always says – _said_ – there was an essential elegance to this sport.”

“Joshua was your coach?”

Castiel’s mood seemed to droop. “He was our sensei. He- He’s not around any more.”

“Hey, Dean!” Dean turned around, surprised to see Chuck and his weird girlfriend, Becky, had ventured near the table. 

“Hey Chuck. Becky.”

“Is Sam around?” Becky gushed.

“No.” Becky slumped. Jess always seemed amused by Becky’s too-obvious crush, though it seemed to freak Sam the hell out. Chuck, on the other hand, remained stubbornly oblivious to it all.

“What’s the word?” Chuck asked.

“On the team?” breezed Dean, gesturing for them to sit. Becky shot an oblivious Castiel the kind of look you’d give a squashed stink bug, and then slid in on the opposite side of Castiel next to Dean. Chuck shrugged and sat down next to Castiel, who was trying out French fries variously dipped in mustard and dragged across salt and/or pepper.

“Try the ranch dressing,” Dean suggested, passing over a squeeze bottle. Chuck wrote for the crap-ass student newspaper, but he took his job seriously, including his sports “column.” Dean had always thought it slightly stupid that someone who wasn’t legally allowed to drink a beer could call a piece of writing a “column.” Like Bobby said, never trust a sports writer who didn’t smoke cigars. 

On the other hand, a sympathetic story could generate some interest, and it wasn’t as if Dean and Victor had had great luck recruiting or pulling in a crowd of fans of late. “On the record, I’m optimistic, Chuck. Off the record, we’re gonna slice some ass and take some names.”

“You mean you’ll actually win a game?” groused Becky, wrinkling her nose at Cas and his dressing-soaked fries.

“You wanna talk to our secret weapon?” asked Dean. Chuck frowned. “Our new star player is sitting right here.” Castiel blinked up at Dean, cheeks stuffed full of ranch-drenched French fries.

“Ewwww. He’s a street fighter!” said Becky.

Castiel nodded. “Yes. I take it you don’t approve of me?” Becky didn’t answer, but didn’t bother to contradict him. “But I noticed you’re wearing those boots. The Wellington Wellies, correct?”

“ _Wellman_ Wellies. _Everyone_ is wearing them.”

“Yes. They are a poorly made replica of the footwear used in classic street fighting, down to the scoring marks on the side. My question is, why would you appropriate this sort of thing if you find street fighting … unsavory?”

Becky’s sour face soured further and there was an uncomfortable silence.

“You think you can manage classic?” Chuck butted in. 

“I feel comfortable with the techniques. Dean is of course assisting my transition.”

Dean sucked in a breath and squared his shoulders. He leaned forward and gestured for Chuck to do the same. “Between you and me, his teammates are already calling him KO Cas.” He watched in satisfaction as Chuck’s eyes glazed over. For most everyone on campus the fencing team was a constant source of frustration and anguish, capped by last season’s utterly dismal record of eight straight losses. News of Coach Henricksen booting a couple of promising seniors had been the straw that broke just about everyone’s heart. Dean’s favorite campus bar now featured a Coach Henricksen dartboard. Henricksen had actually played darts there, and nearly beat Sam on it, causing Dean to decide the new coach was one awesome dude.

“Tell you what, Chuck, see me after our first victory, and we’ll give you an exclusive interview,” Dean promised. 

“That would be great!” said Chuck.

“We’re actually on our way … somewhere,” said Becky, who stood up. “To do stuff.”

“Yeah, we’re going.” Chuck patted Castiel on the shoulder, extending a hand to shake. “Hey, hope to see you again soon, KO Cas.”

Castiel shook, though he looked a little mystified by the nickname. “They seem … nice,” he tried as Becky hurried Chuck away.

“We should probably get going too. If you’re all done?”

“I think I like French fries, Dean,” Castiel told him, scooping up the last two and jamming them in his mouth. Dean smiled. Castiel had looked every inch the badass street fighter when he Dean spotted him a few days ago, but here he was, acting like a giddy eight-year-old over something as dumb as French fries. 

It was pretty damned cute.

“Cool. We’ll take you to the Roadhouse. Jo's mom runs the place. They’ve got killer fries,” Dean told him, idly wondering if Castiel had ever drunk a beer before. If not, this would all be worth it. They collected their weapons and made their way back to the court. Dean had underestimated the time, as he usually did, and nearly everyone was already cleared out. Gabriel was still sitting up in the stands with Jess, and now Sam was there, looking out of breath.

“Where the hell did you run off to?” Gabriel demanded, glaring at Castiel

“Dean, have you heard?” Sam asked at the same time. 

Dean looked back and forth, and decided to answer Sam first. “Heard what?”

“Academic duel.”

“WHAT?” both Dean and Gabriel chorused. 

“What department?” Dean asked Sam.

“Psych.” Sam was a double major in psychology and political science. “Swift versus Jaunoeil.”

Cas frowned. Dean rolled his eyes. “Those psych guys are always going at it.”

“Can you get us in?” Gabriel demanded. “I've heard of these academic fights and I've always wanted to see one.”

“Wait, a street fighter wants to see a couple of old professors whack on each other?” Dean asked him skeptically.

“I’ve heard there’s nothing quite as vicious!”

“They get tickets,” Sam told Gabriel, waving at Dean.

“They're crap seats,” Dean admitted, “but yeah, that's one of the perks.”

“We're in,” said Gabriel. “Get tickets for me and Cassie.”

“I'm not sure I'd like to attend, Gabriel,” said Castiel. 

Dean studied his friend with concern. Castiel looked downcast. “You don't have to go if you don't want to. We just get tickets as a courtesy.”

“Oh, c'mon baby bro,” said Gabriel, slinging an arm around Castiel's shoulders. “Anyway, the car's a-waiting, we gotta get outta here. We'll be back for blood and academics though!”

 

The demand for tickets to the duel, as it happened, outstripped the seating available in the usual fencing venue, so tonight they all headed towards the hockey stadium. Never underestimate the public's thirst for blood, Dean thought soberly. Most of the team had made it, along with some boyfriends and girlfriends, and Jo's mom, Ellen. The boys had offered a ticket to Uncle Bobby, who told them those dumb sons of bitches could go slice themselves up into McNuggets without him.

Castiel was there with Gabriel as well, Gabriel swinging his cane and whistling softly as he walked towards the stadium with them, Cas looking slightly miserable. Once they'd gotten themselves all seated up in the nosebleed section, Dean had grabbed Cas to go buy snacks with him.

“Dude, you're not looking happy. Are you sure you wanna be here?”

Cas calmly grabbed another sack of popcorn from Dean and set it in the cardboard tray he was carrying. “I don't. But, in our culture, if your older brother requests you do something, well...” He trailed off while watching Dean run over the popcorn with a salt shaker. 

“But, you're not happy to be here?”

“The professor who was challenged, Dr. Jaunoeil?” 

Dean grabbed another tray full of sodas and they began to walk back up towards the seats. “What about him. You a psych major?”

Cas smiled shyly. “Religious studies, actually.” Dean chuckled. “But I'm taking a class in sports psychology as an elective.”

“That's what you do for fun?”

Cas's eyes drifted towards the floor and a smile etched his features. “I find it … enlightening. Professor Jaunoeil teaches the class.” He looked up, his eyes searching. “Dean. You are aware that my sport involves a lot of mental preparation, what you might call, mind games. You get an instinct for sizing up an opponent. And Jaunoeil....” Castiel shuddered. 

“Bad vibes?” asked Dean, juggling his box of sodas as he stole a handful of popcorn and tossed it in his mouth.

“I think he is capable of doing most anything to win.”

“You know the _other_ professor dude challenged him.”

“And you know one may be goaded into a duel.”

They had reached the stands again. Dean nodded and, after distributing the sodas, helped Castiel pass out bags of popcorn, and then they took their seats. Those seated down below, faculty and honored guests, for the most part, were quiet. Dean grabbed some field glasses and noticed one or two of the older professors had fallen asleep. The balcony, by contrast, was rumbling with excited students. The night was cold, so when the flask came by, Dean took a good swig, and then poured a generous amount in his cola. He leaned over and, unbidden, spiked Cas's drink as well. Castiel didn't object. 

Down below they could see a section mostly dressed in yellow and waving yellow banners over by the goal line – presumably, for Jaunoeil. It may have been his graduate students. His opponent, Swift, appeared to have his own cheering section more or less opposite of where the fencing team group was seated. Their colors were red and orange. 

“Hey, check it out,” said Dean, pointing down to some empty seats right up front. Some big, armed bodyguards were now lumbering through the crowd downstairs, scattering assistant professors as they made their way down the aisle. They stood aside to allow a snappily dressed contingent file into the empty row. Dean squinted through his field glasses. “Isn't that Dick Roman?”

“That guy from TV?” asked Benny. “How the hell does he rate a ringside seat?”

“He is on the school's board of regents,” said Cas flatly. 

“That bitch is everywhere,” grumbled Ash through a mouth full of popcorn.

Sam related the backstory he'd heard from a classmate, who’d heard it from his roommate, who worked in the Department of Psychology. Scuttlebutt said that Swift was up for tenure, but Jaunoeil had been blackballing him for the past few years. Swift finally called out Jaunoeil at a department meeting. Nobody was sure exactly what was said, but Swift demanded satisfaction, with blades.

A roar went up and the fencing team turned their attention to the arena below. The opponents, dressed in their academic gowns, their seconds, and the officials had entered the field of play. 

Everyone cringed as the microphone squealed with feedback. “Faculty, students, and distinguished guests. We have assembled here for a duel of honor between professors Jaunoeil and Swift, both of the University of Kanas Department of Psychology. Dr. Swift has asked for satisfaction, by blades. We would like request that, due to the grave seriousness of this matter, those assembled in the audience maintain a respectful silence while this matter is concluded.” In response, there was some yelling and general beer-tossing from the nosebleeds, all solemnly ignored by those below.

“The participants have agreed to draw to three. Point total to win.”

There followed a general hubbub in the audience, much louder up in the balconies. Sam turned around looked up to where Dean and Cas were sitting, mouthing, “What the fuck?”

“It’s fucking weird is what it is,” Dean told them. “Normally, these guys will do one, to first blood. Usually, that’s not literal blood – “

“I want my money back!” hollered Benny, to much laughter.

“But to whoever gets the first point. Draw to three is real old school dueling. Means they do three separate matches, and whoever adds up the most points, wins.”

“Sounds kinda boring,” Jo remarked, as she and Gordon tossed popcorn.

“Well, it’s a weird choice for Jaunoeil, he’s so fucking old, I thought he’d be worn out after just one, what with carting around all those fancy academic gowns and shit.”

Castiel leaned closer to Dean. His lips were just a breath away from Dean's ear. Dean found it a little distracting. “I have an idea. Why,” Cas whispered.

After the seconds checked the swords, and weapons were returned to the duelists, they began the first match. It was Jaunoeil’s call. As was the tradition, he called out the blade setting, “Four!” Four Teslas out of a possible ten: it was a fairly low setting, just above the practice levels. And then, after the salutes, the official shouted, _“En gard, pret, allez!”_

There ensued some rather boring parrying. Two old men dueling looked remarkably like two old men dueling. “One point, Swift,” yelled the official.

“Jaunoeil is gonna get his ass kicked,” said Ash. The audience rumbled again while they got set up.

The men returned to their starting positions. It was going to be Swift’s call for the blade settings this time. Unofficially, he could call any setting, but he really needed to ramp it up at least one or, basically, look like a pussy.

“Six!” This round may have lasted another stroke, and then, “One point, Swift.”

Dean dug out a pair of field glasses, and scoped the audience down below. He noticed a couple of the old professors were still snoozing. 

They lined up one last time. 

Jaunoeil’s call.

“TEN!” 

The audience gasped. Castiel and Dean were already on their feet.

An obviously rattled Swift swung and missed. Badly. Jaunoeil moved quick as a viper, and his electrical-charged blade connected. The sword swung true. It sliced cleanly through Swift’s shielding, and then Swift's neck. There was a torrent of blood spewing out of the neck as his body fell. The rest of the crowd was on their feet. There was a roar. Dean grabbed his glasses once again. There was general panic in the box with Swift’s family. A man was hurrying to get one of the women away, off the field. Dean looked at Swift’s body, still twitching, pumping blood, uselessly, out onto the mat. 

He turned the field glasses to Dick Roman, who was sitting stock still, a slight smirk on his face. 

And then he cringed back. Roman had turned to look up: straight up at the balcony.

Straight at Dean. Or so it seemed.

The official needlessly called, “KO, Jaunoeil,” but no one was listening.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into Castiel's past, and we attend a college dueling match.

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 3 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta. I've tried to flag all the major romantic pairings, but this is a college AU, so there are a lot more flirtations and suchlike going on among the characters. But if you can't tolerate this, you probably wouldn't be reading one of my fics anyway.  
 **Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** The formal dueling in this one is a mish-mosh of modern fencing and kendo. Street fighting is an unholy blend of mixed martial arts and samurai movies I watched as a kid.

 

It was a somber group that ended up at Harvelle’s Roadhouse later that evening following the academic duel. Sam had taken a very shaken Jess home, so it was Jo, Ash, Benny and Gordon up at the bar with Ellen, and Dean huddled in a booth along with Castiel and Gabriel. Castiel had answered Dean's question about his familiarity with alcohol by ordering a beer. Oddly, Gabriel didn't seem to share his brother's ignorance of normal food, nor was he visibly much shaken by the evening's events as he was quite greedily digging into the basket of Ellen's deep friend mushrooms.

“Try some, Cas,” said Dean, pushing the basket towards the moping brother. “It's sort of like French fries. Only not.”

Castiel was digging at the label on his beer bottle with a thumbnail. “He planned this, Gabriel. Jaunoeil might just as well have murdered that other professor.”

“Not our responsibility, Cassie,” said Gabriel, popping another mushroom into his mouth, chasing it with a glug of beer, and signaling for the waitress.

“It's immoral.”

“My baby bro the ethics major,” grinned Gabriel, tugging at Castiel's topknot. Cas irritably batted at his brother's hand. 

Jo came flouncing up to the table. “Hey, why are you guys hiding back here in the dark? We're doing shots!”

Castiel shrugged, but Gabriel suddenly sprang up. “That sounds like a challenge, Joanna Beth.”

“It's Jo,” she told him, but nevertheless led him up to the bar.

“You wanna go, Cas?” Dean urged. “If you're worried, they're pretty cool here. I mean, people are not gonna look at you funny. It's not like on campus.”

Castiel peered up from where he had made a mess of his beer bottle label. “Is it possible we could talk, Dean?”

Dean stole a glance at the bar, where everyone was now pretty engrossed in imbibing the maximum quantity of alcohol in the shortest possible time. He nodded towards the back door, and Castiel followed him outside. Dean immediately wished he had brought his jacket as the blast of cold air hit him. He was going to run back inside for his coat, but noticed Cas's pained expression. Cas leaned his back against the wall and breathed out, exhaling a fine spray of condensation. Dean butted a shoulder up against the wall beside him. Cas turned slightly, to face him.

“Dean. My last match before I met you.... Someone … died.” The very last word came out as barely a breath. 

“What happened?”

“I partnered with Gabriel. For years. As you know, we're not really brothers. It's a term of respect for comrades in your dojo. But, we were like brothers. I think. Then a new man came in to take over, Zachariah, and they started pressuring me to go up a weight class.” He paused, staring intently at the ground. “I refused.”

“And? What happened?”

Cas seemed to be dragging out the words from a place deep inside. “Gabriel … was hurt. They partnered me with Uriel instead. We still won. But I don't trust him. I'm certain he dopes. Like they want me to do.”

Dean nodded silently to himself. So his instincts about Castiel were correct. “Go on.”

“Our matches.... I don't know what you know about us. It's not as bad as some people think. They're not supposed to be lethal. But there are some who will pay a lot of money to see blood. Just like all those people in the stadium tonight. In my last fight, Uriel … killed someone. They say it was bad shielding. But I think Uriel – or someone – changed the settings on his blade.”

Dean didn't know what to say. It was a point of strict honor, both in formal dueling and street fighting, that you keep your sword to the agreed setting. If this were true, it would be a terrible scandal. “Have you told anyone?”

“Gabriel. He's the only one I really trust anymore.”

“So, you don't know what's going on?”

“Uriel is my teammate, Dean!” said Cas, looking utterly wretched. “But, it seems like something changed in him. After Zachariah took over, something changed. The look in his eyes. It’s was like the look I saw in Professor Forest. Like he’d do anything to win. Anything.”

Dean suddenly understood why Castiel had agreed to try out for the team. “But you think it's all on you?” he asked, more to himself than to Cas. He steeled himself. “Look, let me tell you something. You know Pamela? She's on the team, but she doesn't play anymore.”

“She is visually impaired, Dean?”

“Yeah. So, Coach Henricksen is pretty new. He came on the end of last season, when we were down several games. I wasn't team captain at that time, but he demoted a couple of other guys – he later kicked them off for doping – and put me in charge. So, it was our last regular season game, and we had no prayer of getting into the post-season, too many losses. And we're playing our big rivals, the Wildcats. That's Coach Crowley's team. You'll meet them soon enough. You know what you said about someone doing anything to win? That's them. Meg actually used to play for that team, and that's the reason she transferred. It was too much, even for her.

“Anyway, they're up to their normal tricks. I got paired with a guy and he made a late hit. The ref called him on it, but he ended up cracking a couple of my ribs. I'm hurting too bad to take my final match, so instead for the final bout they pitted Pamela against this girl, Ruby, on the other side. And I don't know what the hell she did, but Pam gets it in the head, goes down and ends up with a detached retina.”

“She was blinded?” asked Cas, eyes gone wide.

“She could have been! They got her to the hospital in time, so they got it back, but she's still got problems. She sees double. It's tough for her to even do schoolwork now. And she's off the team. She still comes to practice and to matches, God love her. But I don't think she's ever gonna be able to play again. And I feel like it's on me, you know? She went in for me.”

Cas had shifted around so he was mirroring Dean, leaning one shoulder against the wall. He was standing too damn close, up in Dean's face, like he did when he was trying to fuck with an opponent, but it all seemed right when he did it here, like he was Dean's shadow, just here to listen. “That's a lot to take on yourself,” Cas muttered.

Dean shrugged. “You think you're responsible for killing a guy. Dude, what you do? It's fucking dangerous.”

“I know.”

Dean searched Cas’s eyes. “You want out, don't you? I mean, that's the reason for the college classes....”

“It's not easy – getting out. Most of us, we end up like Gabriel. Or worse.”

“You think you'd be a coach? You'd be a good one. I saw you with Jo. She's good, but she's not easy to work with. Overconfident, like crazy. Drives Henricksen up the wall.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you got a talent. Or,” added Dean, cracking a grin, “you could be a food critic.”

Cas stared for a long moment, and then actually broke into a full on smile before shyly dropping his eyes. A killer, but he liked French fries with ranch dressing and laughed at Dean's dumb jokes. Dean suddenly really wanted to see that smile again.

“Are you guys still out here? You must be freezing your asses!” Dean literally jumped at the sound of Gabriel's voice. Cas was blinking like someone had just awoken him from a dream.

“C'mon, Meathead, the car's here,” said Gabriel, handing Cas his coat and inclining his head towards the town car now looming in the parking lot. Dean gawped at the car: he had been so engrossed in his conversation with Castiel, he hadn't even heard it approach. 

“We'll see you again, right?” Dean asked Castiel.

“Just kiss him goodnight so we can get outta here,” Gabriel snarked as he headed off to the car.

You could see Castiel's blush even in the dim light. “Good night, Dean,” he said, and then he was off following his brother before Dean could think of a reply.

The Impala pulled up just as the town car rolled off. Sam popped out and nodded. Dean ran inside, grabbed his coat and said his goodbyes, and then he and Sam were heading home.

“So, how's Jess?” asked Dean from the passenger seat. He hadn't had a whole lot to drink, but for some reason wasn't in the mood for driving right now. 

“I left her gabbing on the phone with Pamela, so I think she'll make it. I don't think she's coming to another academic duel in the near future. And neither am I for that matter.”

Dean looked out the window, watching the world pass by. “I think the whole school is gonna be fucked up over this.”

“Oh, and by the way, those magazines you wanted?” Sam gestured towards a stack of magazines at Dean's feet. 

Dean grabbed a handful and leafed through them. There were titles like _Sword Fighting Monthly_ and _Blades Illustrated_. “Oh! The street fighting stuff. Yeah!”

“Turns out they're not strictly legal, but you know Bobby’s buddy, Rufus? He's a big, big buff.”

Dean nodded, half-listening as he leafed through a couple of issues. The fighters weren't identified by name, only their handles, weird colorful appellations like “Striking Cobra” and “Manhandler.” He flipped through a couple magazines until finally he spotted a very familiar cloud of dark hair. “Wow,” he breathed. 

“You find him already?” asked Sam.

“This is definitely him,” said Dean, clicking on the dome light to get a better look. It was images of Cas fighting, and it was incredible. He didn't seem like he obeyed the laws of gravity, as just about every image had him walking up walls or even, once or twice, bouncing off the damned ceiling of the cage. He couldn't stop staring at the one image, so cool it had been splashed across two pages like the centerfold in a girlie magazine. Cas was launching himself off the top of the plexi cage, every muscle taut, sword poised. It was so beautiful and perfect.

“So what's his handle? Gravelly Voice Dude?” laughed Sam.

Dean squinted down at the captions. He turned to Sam. “He's the Avenging Angel.”

 

_Many years ago…._

Three am.

If Joshua had one rule, it was that it's never good news at three am.

“Gabriel, what are you doing out of bed?”

“I was going to answer the door,” the boy replied, looking up, golden brown eyes all innocent mischief. 

Joshua smiled and ruffed Gabriel's hair fondly, grateful for the distraction. “And where did you get that candy?”

Gabriel abruptly stuffed an entire licorice whip into his mouth. “Wha- c'ndy?” he asked through massively swollen chipmunk cheeks.

Cinching the belt on his robe a little tighter, Joshua turned and answered the door.

It was not good news.

Joshua's first instinct was to slam the door shut again, but after some hesitation, he said, “Come in,” though shaking his head all the time. Balthazar led his small charge into the entryway, where he stood, blinking up at Joshua.

“I've told you, Balthazar, we're full up.”

The young man nodded grimly, a crop of golden hair wafting gently as he did so. “Joshua. I've tried everywhere else,” he said.

“You know we already have too many mouths to feed.”

“I dunno, he's pretty scrawny!” piped up Gabriel, pointing rudely at the new boy. “I bet he doesn't eat much.” The boy, for his part, turned his attention towards Gabriel, staring with laser-like intensity and focus.

Joshua felt his resolve wavering, so he steeled himself. “Balthazar, you know I'd like to help-”

“Joshua, look at that face. If you don't take him here,” Balthazar said, “you know what's going to happen to him.” Joshua shuddered. No, there was no question, not with the wide-set blue eyes, perfect mouth and porcelain skin. Balthazar's next stop would be one of the brothels. “Someone needs to teach this one to fight.”

Joshua addressed the child. “Come this way.” He flicked on a light in the main training area and led the child over to one of the mats. Joshua picked up a wooden training sword and hunkered down so he was eye to eye with the child. Neither spoke for a moment. “So, what's your name?”

“Castiel.” 

Such gravity for one so young. Joshua let his mind drift to what the child must have experienced so far in his short life. 

“Cassie-elle? His name is too long!” Gabriel protested. “He’s not that big!”

“Maybe he’ll grow into it?” said Balthazar.

Joshua put his focus on the boy. “All right, Castiel, do you know where you are, and what we do here?”

“You fight.”

“That's right. I teach boys like Gabriel here how to fight.” Gabriel, evidently pleased at being worthy of mention, stood up straighter. “If you come here, he will be your brother.”

The wide eyes seemed to grow three sizes at this. Castiel stared at Joshua, and then looked over to Gabriel.

Quick as a striking cobra, Joshua took the training sword and slapped Castiel, knocking him down. Gabriel jumped. Balthazar smiled. Castiel, now sitting on his bottom on the mat, stared, surprised and hurt, and then, jumped to his feet, glaring at Joshua.

Joshua and Castiel locked eyes for a long moment. Joshua smiled at Castiel.

And then smacked him over again.

Castiel leapt to his feet, more quickly this time, his eyes blazing at Joshua, who was nodding. Gabriel stared in confusion, and then crowded closer.

Joshua turned and smacked Gabriel to the floor. “What!” shouted Gabriel. “Ow!”

But Joshua was staring again at Castiel, who had leapt in front of Gabriel.

“Interesting,” said Joshua, slowly standing. “Gabriel?”

“What?” grumbled Gabriel, who stood up, rubbing his bottom where he had fallen. “That's gonna leave a bruise, Joshua!”

“Take your brother to the dormitory and find a bed for him. We’ll start him on kitchen prep in the morning.”

“Okay. C'mon Cassie!” said Gabriel, whose mood suddenly brightened. He stuck out a hand. Castiel took it with his own and, with a last long look at Joshua, followed Gabriel out of the room.

Balthazar let out a breath. “Thank you, Joshua. I owe you one,” he said, clasping the other man's shoulder as they walked towards the door.

“I may yet owe you one, my friend,” said Joshua.

 

“That sword is bigger than him.”

“I know, Gabriel. He'll grow into it.” Joshua's attention was not fixed on the weapon, but on the child, who was now standing on the balance beam, staring intently, patiently awaiting his next opponent.

Although street fighting was not confined to a narrow piste like formal dueling, it was Joshua's contention that balance was a skill of utmost importance. So he had his students perform drills on the ten centimeter wide, leather-covered beam. And, occasionally, they would hold sparring matches up there. 

It had been a few years since the night Balthazar had brought Castiel to Joshua's dojo. The boy was still small for his age, but more than made up for it by a kind of fierce intensity Joshua had rarely witnessed in a student. Unlike other pupils who had to be constantly cuffed for daydreaming or malingering, Joshua on more than one occasion had needed to urge Castiel to stop drilling and eat. It probably didn't help that Gabriel, who had sort of adopted the boy as his own personal little brother, would very happily finish off Cassie's dinner for him. The boy would eventually make a good fly weight fighter, probably, Joshua thought. Soon he would try pairing him with Gabriel to see how the two worked together. Though Gabriel has a mischievous side, he was a remarkably good student as well, with lightning-quick reflexes.

But today Joshua had learned something new about Castiel: and that was, once up on the balance beam, it was impossible to knock him off again. Having already bested everyone in his age group, Joshua was letting him spar with the slightly bigger boys now, which had necessitated granting him a slightly longer sword. With his characteristic gravity, Castiel had accepted the new blade, and then put it through its paces, dancing along the beam as if he had been born up there.

“All right. Samael. Go ahead,” said Joshua. A blond boy eagerly hopped up on the beam, goaded on by some of his friends. He appeared unsure of his footing, but then took up a position, and nodded confidently to Joshua. 

_“En garde. Pret. Allez.”_

It wasn't much of a contest. Samael attacked first, but his strike nearly overbalanced him. Castiel cleverly exploited this with his parry, and, with a small cry, Samael was on his ass down on the floor to much hooting and hollering.

“All right, settle down everyone. Settle down!”

“Oh, let me do it,” huffed Uriel. He was only a year or so older than Castiel, but already a good thirty pounds heavier. 

“Uriel, I'm not sure-” Joshua began, but he felt a tug on his arm.

“Let him try,” whispered Gabriel, who was grinning.

Uriel hopped up on the beam, causing it to vibrate like crazy. “You're set to three, Uriel,” Joshua chastened. The boy had a bad habit of screwing around with his sword settings. Uriel rolled his eyes and clicked on his hilt. The blade hummed in response. Joshua scowled. This was not a good idea. 

Despite his bulk, Uriel looked all around a lot more sure-footed than Samael. He glared at Castiel, who, steadfast as the little tin soldier, took his position. 

_“En garde. Pret. Allez.”_ Joshua cringed as Uriel charged Castiel. Castiel suddenly crouched down and Uriel's swing caught air. Castiel head-butted Uriel in the stomach, sending him back a pace. Uriel recovered, and then, with a roar, crouched down to strike at Castiel, who had retreated to the very edge of the beam. Castiel hopped and suddenly sprang up like a crazy jack-in-the-box all the way over Uriel's head, tucking and rolling over Uriel's back. His feet caught the very end of the beam. Castiel turned on a dime and struck Uriel, who could not turn around in time, square in the back, sending him sprawling. He ended up face-planted on the mat.

There was no sound, not even a breath.

“You go, Cassie!” yelled Gabriel, who ran up to the beam and pulled his brother off to ride on his back. And suddenly, Castiel, always so grave, broke into a great smile as the rest of the kids began to chatter and some boys helped a still dazed Uriel to his feet. Uriel flashed a glare at an oblivious Castiel and stormed out of the room.

Joshua felt a hand on his shoulder. Balthazar had silently slipped into the gym at some point. “That boy,” he whispered to Joshua. “He's going to be a champion.”

“Either that, or he's going to end up dead,” sighed Joshua.

 

The cucumber disappeared under the flash of the knife. And then the slices were flicked off the cutting board, into the bowl.

“How do you do that without getting some fingers mixed up in there, Cassie?” asked Gabriel, sitting himself down on the cabinet and grabbing a slice of fresh cut vegetable to nibble on.

Castiel waved the knife at him. “I'll get some of _your_ fingers in the pot, Gabriel.” Adolescence, though it had not dimmed the bright blue eyes, had wrought Castiel into a fighter, tall and lean, although he still had to be urged to eat to keep up his weight class. Perhaps most striking of all, his voice had ripened to a perpetually surly-sounding growl. Gabriel had suggested his brother seek employment on a phone sex line, which had gotten Gabriel knocked down but good in a practice spar.

And after the fashion of street fighters, Castiel had stopped cutting his hair on the occasion of his first professional bout. The custom was not to cut it unless and until one had suffered a defeat, but the technicalities of what constituted a “defeat” had become fluid enough to negate anyone from actually going under the scissors. Whereas Gabriel, who was similarly “undefeated” kept his long brown hair neatly clasped at his neck between fights, Castiel twisted his own unruly dark hair into a topknot at nearly all times. Gabriel remarked that Castiel's hair seemed to have a presence of its own, a strange dark cloud hovering over his head.

“I'm hungry!” protested Gabriel, stealing another slice of vegetable.

“You're always hungry. That's for dinner.” A carrot now yielded to the flash of Castiel's knife. 

“I'm doing you a favor, baby bro,” Gabriel munched. “Saving you cooking time. See? Direct from your bowl to my gut.”

Castiel smiled and grabbed another vegetable. “Is that so?” The greenery was diced in a flash, and added to the bowl.

“Yep!” laughed Gabriel, grabbing another slice and popping it into his mouth. He paused, and then, choking, “HOT PEPPER,” hopped off the counter and spat into the sink. He cranked the faucet on full and stood frantically pushing water into his mouth.

“Water doesn't solubilize, you know,” Cas told him, popping some carrot into this own mouth.

“You little fucker,” rasped Gabriel. “What?”

“I haven't been shorter than you for years, Gabriel. And water is a polar liquid, so it doesn't solubilize capsaicins.” Gabriel looked baffled, as he often did when talking to Castiel. “You need to imbibe something like whole milk. Or alcohol.”

“Beer!” said Gabriel, flinging himself towards the refrigerator. He popped open a cold one and guzzled a good half of it down, finishing by emitting a rather loud burp. “Ah. Better.” He happily patted his stomach.

“What are you two idiots doing?” growled Uriel, the only man in the dojo with a voice that could rival Castiel's for sheer rumbling timbre. He was almost as tall as Castiel, but a good deal broader. Rumor had it he had started juicing. As had a lot of people. Since the sport itself was technically illegal, not much attention was paid, although Joshua was known to look down on the practice.

“He's cooking and I'm _solubilizing_!' said Gabriel, who hopped back up on the counter.

This earned a glare. “Have you seen the brackets?” asked Uriel.

“Weeks ago, dude,” snapped Gabriel, although both he and Castiel looked nervous.

“They've updated.”

“And?” asked Gabriel, rolling his eyes. “You gonna make me go out there?”

Uriel's smile was predatory. “Michael's shoulder is still bad. He's out, so his dojo is a by. It's going to be you two against Samyaza and Raphael.”

Castiel stopped slicing.

“Eh. We'll kick their asses,” said Gabriel, who was now fiddling with the label on his beer bottle. 

“I'll talk to Joshua about this,” said Castiel, wiping his hands on his apron, while a smirking Uriel took his leave.

Gabriel was down off the counter and standing in front of Castiel, sputtering mad. “What? Wait! Why would you do that?”

“Gabriel. We are no match for those two.” Castiel had removed his apron and calmly set it on a hook.

“Sure we are. It's- It's on the brackets.”

“I'm going to see Joshua,” Castiel told him, striding out of the kitchen, Gabriel now hastening along behind.

“What are you gonna say to him?”

“I will tell him we're not an appropriate match for Samyaza, and he will change the bracketing,” Castiel told him simply.

“Cassie, how the hell have you lived in the real world this long?”

“I was not aware that street fighting was the real world,” Castiel mused. He stopped short. “Who is that?” Joshua was in his office, a dingy glass box pushed casually to the corner of the main training area. He sat there now along with a large pig-faced, balding man. Balthazar, who was in the office as well, leaned against the wall, looking concerned.

“No fucking idea. Cassie, let's go back to the kitchen,” said Gabriel. But Castiel was already charging forward. He knocked twice, two sword-sharp raps, and then burst inside.

“Joshua.”

“Oh, so here are my little superstars,” gushed the bald man, training beady eyes between Castiel and Gabriel. 

Castiel forced down a shudder and continued. “Joshua, we need to talk to you. In private.”

“Castiel. Gabriel. This is Zachariah,” said Joshua, indicating the piggy man, who, extracting himself from the chair, slowly got to his feet. He was utterly huge, filling the small office, and towering over the two boys, to whom he extended a limp hand. 

“So very pleased to meet you,” Zachariah said, after nearly crushing Gabriel's sword hand and reaching for Castiel's to do the same. “We're going to work so well together.” 

Castiel flicked his eyes towards Balthazar, who shook his head and then stared at the ground. He stared at Zachariah's extended hand, not moving.

“Uh, what's going on?” asked Gabriel, irritably shaking out his sore hand.

“I think we're going to talk to Castiel now, isn't that right, Joshua?” said Zachariah. 

Balthazar frowned, and then walked over to Gabriel. “Come on,” he said, quietly laying a hand on Gabriel's shoulder. Gabriel sputtered, but allowed Balthazar to lead him out of the office.

“What did you want to talk to me about, Castiel?” Joshua offered as Zachariah somehow origami'd himself back into a human-sized office chair.

“The match with Samyaza.”

“Well, isn't that strange?” said Zachariah, who really didn't appear to find it at all strange. “That was just what we wanted to talk to you about!”

Castiel, doing his best to ignore Zachariah, asked Joshua, “What about the match?”

“Zachariah thinks it would be best if you considered pairing with Uriel. Just for this bout, you understand?”

“Gabriel is my partner.”

Zachariah settled his bulk. “We just wanna shake things up a little. Keep things interesting. And fun!”

“Gabriel … is … my partner,” Castiel repeated.

“Is this one slightly dim?” asked Zachariah.

Joshua steepled his hands. “The boys have a long history. They know and trust each other, Zachariah.”

“I will not partner with Uriel,” stated Castiel.

Zachariah clasped his hands together over his ample belly. “Joshua says he thinks you could go up a weight class.”

“I don't dope,” Cas intoned with bitter finality.

“It makes you stronger,” said Zachariah. “And more receptive to … some more sophisticated training methods. Uriel has proved very cooperative!”

“It makes you slow,” said Castiel. “Physically and mentally.”

“Castiel-” said Joshua, holding up a hand.

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Is that what happened to you?” he asked Zachariah.

“Oh, sassy Cassie,” grinned Zachariah. “What a merry brood you've raised here, Joshua. A merry brood. So much different from Samyaza's lot.”

Joshua was gazing at something on his cluttered desk. “Castiel. Just promise me you'll consider this? For the future?”

 

Gabriel heard Joshua's office door slam and went to catch up with Castiel, who was stalking back towards the kitchen. 

“Balthy tells me this Zach dude is gonna be co-manager from now on,” Gabriel told Castiel. “We're stuck with his creepy ass.”

Castiel nodded but did not slow his pace nor reply. He stormed back into the kitchen, grabbed up a knife and began to massacre some vegetables.

“Cassie. What did Zach tell you?”

“He wanted me to partner with Uriel,” Castiel grunted.

“And, what did you tell him?”

Castiel dumped a ragged assemblage of sliced vegetables into a bowl. He looked at Gabriel, his eyes blazing.

“I told him to fuck himself. Sideways. With an egg beater.”

Gabriel stood and stared dumbly for a long moment. And then he laughed, hopping up on the counter, and grabbing some sliced carrot from the bowl. “That's my bro,” he smiled.

 

“Gabriel?”

“Close the door.” Castiel quietly shut the door and went to sit at Gabriel's bedside.

“I'm so sorry-”

“Stop! Just, don't.”

Castiel looked at the cast enclosing his brother's leg, tears welling in his eyes. “If only I had-”

“Cassie! I told you to shut it,” Gabriel snapped. Castiel exhaled, a slow, sad sound, and seemed to wilt. He remembered the crowd roaring, and Gabriel lying broken on the mat as Samyaza raised his sword in triumph. “Look, you gotta listen to me, bro,” said Gabriel, reaching over and grabbing Castiel by the lapel. “I'm not gonna fight any more.”

“No, you-”

“No, I'm not gonna get better. The docs say I'll probably be able to walk. Probably. I'll take it. Better to be crippled up than dead. And that's what happened to the last couple of idiots who fought Samyaza.”

Castiel held his sides, straining not to cry. “I'll quit too. That's what I'll do.”

“Don't be an idiot. Even if you are.” Gabriel huffed in frustration. “Then we'll both be out on our asses. Look, I talked to Joshua. He's been looking for someone to do more management stuff since Balthy took off.”

“Zachariah fired him,” Castiel muttered.

“Well, whatever. But you need someone around to watch your back, due to being an idiot.”

Castiel nestled into the chair, hugging his knees. “Yes, I'm an idiot.”

“So, good, we're on the same page. Cassie, they're gonna partner you with Uriel now.”

“I won't fight with Uriel!”

“No, listen to me, and quit being an idiot. You train with Uriel, you fight with Uriel. You do not trust that motherfucker, you hear me?”

“How can I fight with a partner I can't even trust?”

“You'll have to be different. I'll help. It may be better. Remember, Uriel can knock a guy over with his breath.”

Castiel managed a chuckle. He stared at Gabriel. “This was the agreement, wasn't it? Convince me to partner with Uriel?”

Gabriel tried to shift positions and winced as he moved his leg. “Zach was in here the minute I was awake. You can't avoid that slimy bastard.”

“Well, at least I know.”

“We'll figure it out, you and me,” said Gabriel. “Look, things are gonna be different now regardless. There are new people in charge.”

“You mean Zachariah?” sighed Cas.

“I mean the guys behind Zach. The money guys. At any rate, Joshua is on his way out. They're broadcasting now, to people who wouldn't usually go to a match. The trend now is for matches with bigger guys, more smoke and noise. Bigger booms. Joshua's way … that's old-fashioned.”

“Joshua's way is the right way,” said Cas.

“Listen, baby bro. Just keep your head down for now. Go along. And we'll figure this out. I promise.”

Cas stared miserably out the window.

 

_The present day…._

Dean waved up to the stands. Sam and Jess happily waved back. Castiel also spotted Chuck and his girlfriend, but few others. The seats were dotted with blue and crimson as the sparse assembly of fans – mostly family, boyfriends, girlfriends and roommates of the team members – found their seats. “There are more people in the opponent's section,” said Castiel, pointing across the court to where the away team's fans were arrayed.

“Yeah, we don't have a lot of spectators just now,” Dean admitted as the team assembled along the courtside. 

“After last season, I'm surprised anyone would show their faces,” Benny huffed.

“It'll pick up,” Dean assured Cas. “Fans are fickle. We just gotta win a couple matches, and they'll be packed to the rafters.”

Castiel found a seat and discovered that, as usual, attention was being paid to him. Several people across the court were openly pointing, and he saw the opposing team, the Sooners, whispering to each other.

“You remember what we talked about?” Dean asked him, leaning close. There wasn't a whole lot of crowd noise, so Castiel could hear him just fine. It was quite a contrast to the roiling, rowdy crowd that had come to see the bloody academic duel just a few weeks ago. Since that time the team had practiced diligently for their first match. He and Dean, along with Coach Henricksen, had pored over tapes of last year's games, and then drilled everyone to play to their strengths and improve their weaknesses. Castiel had been very surprised that, after an initial awkwardness, most everyone appeared to heed his coaching advice. Gordon remained chary, although Cas had done his best to keep Jo at arm's length. Well, as distant he could keep the effusive little blonde. He frowned. In their way, women terrified him more than Samyaza.

Henricksen made a last pass, nervously mouthing platitudes before taking his seat at the end of the bench. Castiel supposed what he really wanted right now more than anything was a cigarette. Castiel had helpfully supplied their coach with articles showing the health risks of smoking, but the coach didn't seem inclined to heed them.

_“Cas-ti-el! KU player Cas-ti-el?”_

An official made the announcement for the first duel, stumbling over Cas’s name. As parties on the field all stared over at the KU team, Castiel was still sitting doggedly on the bench. He cast his eyes on his opponent, who had scurried out the second his name was called. He looked at Dean beside him, who nodded. 

“Go kick his Okie ass,” whispered Benny, seated to his other side.

Castiel rose, looking every inch the displaced street fighter. Head held regally erect, he strode onto the field and, as the crowd murmured, marched relentlessly towards his bemused opponent. He walked rapidly, relentless as a stalking tiger up the mat, right to his mark, where he abruptly arrested his movement and swept into _en garde_ , sword posed high and lethal.

His opponent gulped.

“That Sooner guy's gonna pee his pants,” Benny whispered to Dean. They had taken a calculated risk putting Castiel up first, but Dean thought, and Henricksen agreed, it would be good to get them all good and rattled first thing.

The court had grown silent, everyone collectively holding their breath. Cas's opponent somehow managed to dredge up enough composure to get himself more or less into his own ready position. 

_“En garde. Pret. Allez!”_

In typical Cas fashion, he had a point practically before his opponent could move. 

“Point, Jayhawks!”

The Sooner stands started to mutter, and Dean heard a raggedy cheer go up behind him. “You are up next, Benny,” said Castiel crisply as he returned. “Your opponent is weak on his left side.” Henricksen, who had darted up to stand at Castiel's side, nodded in agreement. Dean grinned. The coach had been totally thrown by the swift win. 

The evening seemed to fly by, with duels punctuated by small court-side huddles as Dean, Cas and the coach (when he regained some of his composure) chatting strategy with the next duelist. Benny and Gordon both got some good licks in, with Jo practically dancing off the court after a win. Even Charlie managed not to drop her sword during her one duel, which marked considerable progress. In the last match, Meg dispatched her opponent nearly as neatly as Castiel had done, giving a clear win to the Jayhawks. 

Dean rushed over to shake the hand of the Sooner's team captain. It was the guy Castiel had fought right out of the gate and he still seemed a little shaken up. “That guy, is he really a student?” the dude asked.

“He's on the Dean's List,” grinned Dean. In truth, Henricksen had been happy to have Castiel partly as he pulled up the team's GPA up. Ash and Charlie were big brains, but Jo and Gordon tended to screw off, especially if they were currently dating. Which they apparently were now, Dean realized as he marched back across the court and stepped between Jo and Cas. He wasn't completely sure if Jo was intentionally trying to make Gordon jealous about Cas, but that was the upshot, and Cas seemed baffled by how to deal with it.

He grabbed Cas by the shoulder and pretended he had something vitally important to tell him, but he was interrupted by a noise from the stands. The spectators were standing up and gathering their stuff, but a couple of guys had started pounding their feet. _Stamp, stamp, stamp-stamp, stamp!_ It was sort of a tradition: all the schools had their rhythm. _Stamp, stamp, stamp-stamp, stamp!_ A couple more people stopped and imitated them. Sam and Jess had stopped and were enthusiastically joining in. 

Dean squeezed Cas's shoulder. “Da-amn! I forgot how that sounded,” said Ash, as they all looked up to the stands. 

“Get used to it!” said Coach Henricksen, waving at the stands as he strode out. 

“Shit,” said Dean, as he led Cas towards the exit. “We won.” He realized he was tearing up.

“Isn't that usually what happens when you score more points?” Cas asked him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 4 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta. I've tried to flag all the major romantic pairings, but this is a college AU, so there are a lot more flirtations and suchlike going on among the characters. But if you can't tolerate this, you probably wouldn't be reading one of my fics anyway.  
 **Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** The formal dueling in this one is a mish-mosh of modern fencing and kendo. Street fighting is an unholy blend of mixed martial arts and samurai movies I watched as a kid.

 

_Many years ago...._

“Take care of your brother, Dean.”

Dean picked up the well-worn twenty dollar bill that had been abandoned on the kitchen table and stared at it, biting his lip. He flipped it over and over, as if trying to divine a secret. He shuffled his bare feet and shivered. The floor was ice cold.

He finally looked up. “Dad. I think Sammy has a fever.”

John Winchester paused for a beat, and then went for his wallet. He extracted another twenty and tossed it to the table. “There. Remember to pick up some Nyquil.”

Dean regarded the bill, and then tossed the twenty in his hand down beside it. “Dad. Why do you have to go?”

“Dean, we've talked about this....”

“Why do you _always_ have to go?”

“Dean.” John squatted down so he was at eye level with his young son. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “There's a bigger picture here. There's a whole world out there. Full of things you can never imagine. Good men, bad men. Monsters. Angels and demons! I've got responsibilities. Big responsibilities. Out there.” He stood up, and ruffed Dean's hair. “Some day, you'll understand.”

“I don't understand now.”

“Dean. _Take care of your brother._ ”

Dean scowled. He knew enough to hear the dismissal in his father’s voice. His eyes bore into the cold floor as he listened to the door open and shut, and heard the familiar rev of the Impala's engine.

“Did Daddy go?”

Dean turned to his brother. Sam was still in his jammies, smushing a well-worn plush toy to his body. He shivered, beads of sweat glinting on his fevered forehead.

“Sammy, you gotta get back to bed,” sighed Dean. He grabbed the twenties on the table and stuffed them into his jeans pocket, pausing when a scrap of paper fluttered out. He squatted down, looking at the phone number hastily scribbled out in a leaky ball point pen.

 

_The present day...._

“So, we got a little … situation.”

Dean didn't like the sound of this. He followed Cas into Henricksen's Marlboro-scented office where the coach indicated they both take chairs. Dean began to sit, but noticed Cas was standing very stiffly, so he decided to remain on his feet as well.

Henricksen, on the other hand, plopped into his chair. “So, I understand you two know Becky Rosen?”

Castiel looked baffled, but Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Chuck's weird girlfriend. She's always slobbering over my brother.” He shrugged. “She's harmless.”

“And Chuck Shurley is the boy who interviewed Castiel for the student paper?”

“He requested the interview. Following our victory,” said Cas.

“Yeah. So, what's the deal?” asked Dean.

“It's not Becky, exactly, but her mother, Mrs. Rosen. Who happens to best friends with the Dean of Students's wife. That Dean is the guy who administers the dress code.”

Dean and Castiel looked at each other and then chorused, “What dress code?”

The coach sighed and handed Dean a memo from off his desk. “They had to go back a hundred years to find it, but basically, Cas, if you're gonna play, we've gotta do something about that hair.”

Dean squinted at the list of rules listed in the memorandum. “But this also says women's skirts shouldn't be shorter than three inches below the knee! What, are they gonna follow us around with rulers now?”

“I know, it's hypocritical. But there's some … uneasiness among the community about having a street fighter on our team. Now!” he held a hand up as Dean attempted to interrupt. “They don't wanna kick him off. They obviously like the part where we win. But, Cas, please. No topknot. It just.... It scares people.”

“It's supposed to scare people!” said Dean.

“No,” said Cas.

“No … what?” asked Henriksen.

“No, I will not cut my hair. It's dishonorable. Thank you for the opportunity to play on the team.” And with that, Cas turned on his heel and stormed out.

“Castiel! Wait!” said Henricksen.

“I'll get him,” said Dean, who ran along behind. “Cas, stop!”

But Castiel did not stop: not to answer the hails of his fellow team mates, and not for Dean. He grabbed his bag and stormed out of the building, Dean hot on his heels.

“Cas, wait, we can talk about this.”

“I will not be something other than what I am,” Cas told him.

Dean caught up and grabbed one of Cas's shoulders. “Look, wait, I get the same thing from Sammy when I tell him he needs a cut.”

Cas whirled around, glaring at Dean. “This is NOT the same thing.”

His town car pulled up at exactly that moment and Cas grabbed the door.

“Cas, please, be reasonable.”

“My name is _Castiel_ ,” barked Cas, slamming the door. Dean stood, cursing, as the car drove off. 

“What the hell?” said Sam, running up behind Dean. “I was coming to check out practice....”

“Becky Fucking Rosen is what happened,” Dean muttered.

“What. Her?”

Dean was seething. “Your girlfriend tattled to mommy that there's a street fighter loose, endangering her precious daughter. So they told Cas he needs to cut his hair, and he won't even talk to me anymore. Dammit, Sammy! What do we do now? You heard what Uncle Bobby always says. You dishonor these guys, that's it! They don't get un-offended.” He watched his brother, who was calmly dialing his phone. “What?”

“I got this,” said Sam. 

“You got what? Who are you calling?”

“I'm gonna call Jess. And have Jess call Pamela.”

“Yeah?”

“And have Pamela call Gabe.”

Dean paused. “Son of a bitch!” he gushed. Sam gave a smug little smile. “My brother, the genius.”

 

“No, Gabriel!”

“Aw, c'mon Cassie. It's just hair.”

That got Castiel's attention. He ceased pacing up and down the mat in the empty training room, and stood staring in horror at his brother. “You're not serious.”

Gabriel reached around to rub the back of his bare neck. “I cut all mine off. Didn't end the world. 

“Yes, but I still have to get back in that cage and face my opponents.”

“So face 'em with less hair in your face. Will probably improve your reaction time. You'd like that. And besides, Dean could see those pretty baby blues.” Gabriel batted his eyes, and Cas retreated, blushing furiously.

“I thought you didn't want me to fence on the college team?”

Gabriel smiled. “Cassie, for a guy who's never happy, I've never seen you as happy as you’ve the last month. I gotta admit, those lamebrains are good for you. And Pamela is cute as hell.” He went back to waggling his eyebrows. “Look, I said my job was to keep you from being stupid. So, stop being stupid. Or at least talk to the saucy Winchester boy.”

Castiel sighed. It was his honor at stake. No one seemed to acknowledge this!

But Gabriel was still his older brother.

And Dean was....

Dean was….

 

“So he's off the team?”

Benny flipped his cell phone shut and frowned. He grabbed a dart and tossed it at the Coach Henricksen dart board. “Guess so,” he muttered. “Pammy says Sam and Dean are gonna go talk to him.”

“Ohhhh, you don't mess with those guy's honor!” piped up Ash from behind the Roadhouse bar. “He's not gonna do it.”

“Not gonna return, or not gonna quit?” asked Gordon, who was sitting on a barstool with Jo standing between his legs.

“Not gonna return, A-hole.”

“Fuck!” said Jo. “I thought we were gonna finally have a winning season.”

“Joanna Beth! Language!” yelled her mother from across the bar, sparing a withering glance at an oblivious Gordon.

“Too bad,” said Meg, who slithered down a chair or two to approach the group. “That one's got a great little ass.”

Ash looked like he was going to spit. “Ew! Meg. Do not objectify us!”

“I wasn't objectifying _you_ , Opie,” she assured him.

“Dammit. I mean, pardon my French, but I think I'm gonna do something!” said Benny.

“Do what exactly?” Gordon asked him.

“Is it something balls out stupid?” asked Ash hopefully.

 

“I know what I'm gonna do.”

“What are you gonna do?” asked Sam, who, not for the first time, was having trouble keeping up with his older but much shorter brother.

“I know what I'm gonna do,” Dean repeated.

Sam and Jess, who was running alongside him, exchanged a worried glance. “Dean, are you going to do something really stupid?”

“Exactly,” said Dean, bursting into the court. Castiel, standing leaning up against the wall that divided the stands from the court, looked up, and Dean told himself he saw hopefulness in his eyes. Gabriel stood beside him. He for one did not look hopeful. 

“Get your sword,” Dean told Cas.

“I'm sorry. What?” asked Gabriel. Castiel only tilted his head.

Dean already had his sword out, and was standing on the mat, stretching. “You can't cut your hair 'til you're defeated, right? So, I’m gonna defeat you. Come on!”

Gabriel chortled. Castiel remained immovable, standing with his arms crossed. “You can’t win, Dean.”

“Maybe not the first game. Or the second. Or the tenth. But some time, you’re gonna make a mistake. And I’ll win. Come on!”

Castiel attempted to form words. He failed several times, and finally said, “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He gasped as he was pushed forward. 

“Come on, like the man said, get going,” said Gabriel. “Engardepretallez and all that stuff.”

Castiel squared his shoulders and approached the mat. They set up, and, with Sam calling it, Dean lost. And lost again. And again. And again.

And after an hour, Dean still hadn’t won. And then it was another hour. And then he sat down on the mat, wiping sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. “Just, gimme a minute,” he told his brother, taking a swig of water. 

“Give me your sword,” said Sam.

“What?”

“Give me your damned sword,” said Sam. Dean handed it up. “Okay, Cas, I haven’t tried this since high school, so promise you won’t kill me?” And he extended himself into a ready position.

“Sam-“ Cas started.

“Let’s go before I change my mind.” 

“Okay guys, you ready?” said Gabriel, who had moved beside them. Castiel, who was somewhat stiff, moved to stand against Sam. 

Of course, Castiel kicked his ass. Repeatedly. Although Sam didn’t do too badly for himself.

It was at this time that several of the crowd from the Roadhouse burst in the door.

“What the blazes is Sam doing fighting Cas?” boomed Benny.

“Dean is going to beat Cas,” Jess explained. “So then he won’t be dishonored chopping his hair.”

“ _Dean_ is fighting Cas?” asked Ash, watching as Gabriel started off another match.

“I got a little, uh, exhausted,” said Dean, getting painfully to his feet. “So Sammy is spelling me.”

“Wait, I wanna piece of this!” howled Benny, stomping over to where Sam had just gone down in flames once again. 

“Oh, me too me too!” sang Jo, dancing over, Gordon trailing along behind her. “Me next!”

Castiel looked around, dumbfounded. He wiped his face with a towel, and then tossed it aside, nodding grimly at Benny.

At some point, Pamela showed up with Charlie, and so did Meg.

“Why don’t you get tired!” Benny yelled at Castiel, who smiled slightly. “Ain’t normal!”

“Benny,” said Gabriel, “you officiate, it’s my turn.”

“Gabriel! This is not a good idea,” Cas scolded him as Gabriel grabbed a sword from the equipment cabinet.

“Are you kidding? This is a great idea! I could always take my little bro down a peg.”

“Gabriel! No!”

“You want me to challenge you? Because I will.”

“Aw, c’mon, Cas. Let your brother in on the fun,” Benny told him.

Castiel scowled at his brother, who was somewhat painfully trying to find a comfortable ready position, although he also managed a wink at Pamela up in the stands. “Okay, here we go. Benny?”

Benny counted off. The small crowd gasped. Even with his mobility impaired by his injury, Gabriel was quick as lightning. Castiel, who was finally tiring, just barely parried him.

“Damn. He’s good,” said Pamela, who could not help but sound a trifle impressed.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you, darling!” Gabriel shouted over. 

They clashed half a dozen times. Gabriel didn’t quite manage to win, but he nevertheless left Castiel considerably flustered.

“Gabriel,” said Dean when Meg had stepped in as Cas’s new opponent and Gabriel retreated to the stands to sit down. “Dude, you’re amazing.”

Gabriel cracked a wide grin. “You should have seen me during my heyday. I fought as The Trickster. Nobody could get past me. Even when I fought above my normal weight class. I sort of have a sweet tooth,” he added, patting his stomach.

Sometime later, Jo called, “Cas, you okay?” Dean, who was sitting up in the stands, charged down to the mat, where Cas was on his knees, breathing hard. Cas didn’t answer. 

“You look like shit, buddy,” Dean told him. “Come on.” He held out a hand, and Cas, trembling furiously, took it and got to his feet, although he looked like he was going to drop.

“All right, line it up,” said Gabriel, who was on the sidelines, nodding to Dean. Dean went to grab his sword, and came back to face off once again against Cas, who was now visibly swaying from side to side. 

The court grew quiet.

_“En garde,”_ said Gabriel. Cas raised his sword, and nearly overbalanced. _“Pret.”_ Cas’s arm trembled. _“Allez.”_

And then Dean’s sword was at his neck.

“KO. Winchester,” said Gabriel, as Cas slowly sunk to his knees. He gazed up at Dean, eyes brimming with tears. With trembling hands he held his sword, hilt-first, towards Dean.

Gabriel grabbed the sword and handed it off to Dean. “Okay, here’s what you gotta do, Deano, so you don’t mess it up.” He grabbed Castiel’s hair. “Now, pull it at the knot, and hold it tight. You wanna do this in one smooth stroke so you’re not hacking at his head.”

The entire team, including Sam and Jess, had filtered out of the stands, and now gathered around in a silent circle. Dean did as Gabriel instructed, pulling up Castiel’s long hair in his left hand while he gripped Cas’s sword tightly in his right. To his relief, Castiel had closed his eyes, long lashes fluttering down on chalk white cheeks. Dean blinked as well. “And keep your eyes open,” Gabriel warned Dean. “Don’t wanna lose fingers with this. I’ve seen it done.”

Dean opened his eyes wide. He steeled himself and counted, one-two-three….

“Hey, good one! You’re a real pro!” shouted Gabriel, pounding Dean on his sore back. Dean looked up in surprise to realize he was holding a knot of dark brown hair. He looked down to assure himself Cas was still there, and nodded at his shaking friend. 

“Uh. What do I do with this?” he whispered to Gabriel, indicating the hair.

“Can I have it?” gushed Charlie. “I could use it in a wig.”

Gabriel shrugged and rolled his eyes, and Charlie snatched the hair.

Dean stuck a trembling hand down to Cas, who, shaking badly, got to his feet. “Welcome to the team,” he told Cas softly, holding an arm around him to steady him. Castiel stared up curiously at the fringe of uneven bangs now falling in his face. He puffed air at them, and then sent a hand through his hair, which was now sticking literally every which way.

“You look better this way, brother,” said Benny. 

“So what do we do now?” asked Ash.

“I think we go get very drunk,” Dean told Cas, who gave him a very tentative smile.

 

“The Lincoln assassination?” asked Dean.

“The Lincoln assassination!” said Ash.

“The Lincoln assassination,” Castiel muttered into the bar. He was half-sitting on a bar stool, his head nestled in his arms.

“Lincoln died in a duel with John Wilkes Booth,” Dean told them.

“That’s what they want you to think!” said Ash.

“Who the hell are ‘they’ anyway?” asked Dean.

“What are you talking about?” asked Gabriel, who hooked his cane on the bar and the hopped up to sit beside it. 

“The Lincoln assassination,” said Dean.

“Yep,” said Gabriel, putting a beer to his lips. “They killed him.”

“How do you know?”

“Every street fighter knows.” Gabriel pointed at Ash. “Ash knows.”

“Yeah, but Ash is a paranoid conspiracy theorist!” said Dean.

Gabriel nodded sagely. “Lincoln was going to end indentured servitude.”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” Dean winced as Gordon got up and, with Jo trailing behind him, stormed out of the bar. “Aw, shit, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“What?” asked Gabriel, hopping down to sit next to Dean.

“His sister,” whispered Dean. “Bounty hunter got here. She’s somewhere down south. The family doesn’t know where.”

“They’re not Freedmen?” asked Gabriel.

“No,” said Ash. “And she was in Missouri on some kind of class trip.”

“Sword fighting is the practice of free men, everywhere!” muttered Castiel, who suddenly popped his head up off his arms.

Dean leaned over and affectionately brushed a ruff of ragged dark hair out of Cas’s eyes. “I think maybe this guy has had enough for one night,” he smiled.

Cas leaned closer. “You have many freckles, Dean.”

“I think you’re right,” laughed Gabriel, hastening over to get one of Cas’s arms over his shoulders. “C’mon, Baldy. Time to get you home.” Dean caught up Castiel's other arm, and the two half walked, half carried him out to the waiting town car. 

“We've got a game tomorrow night,” said Dean.

“We'll get him there,” said Gabriel. “I’ll get you _all_ there, in fact. I'll hook this guy up to an IV with hot coffee tomorrow morning.” 

Dean smiled and waved them away, and then, deep in thought, walked back into the Roadhouse, where he found himself double-teamed by Benny and Ash.

“So, you and that street fighter,” said Benny, sliding a fresh beer in front of Dean.

“Me and Cas – what?” asked Dean.

“We were just wondering,” said Benny.

“No judgment!” piped up Ash.

“No-?” started Dean, looking from one to the other. “Oh, you think-”

“You know, you two-” said Benny, pressing his index fingers together side by side.

“Oh. Gahd! Are you all turning into girls?” asked Dean.

Benny shrugged. “We were just wondering.”

“No judgment,” said Ash.

“No judgment,” repeated Benny.

“Guys, do me a favor and stop wondering. Okay? We got a game coming up tomorrow, and Cas is gonna be tired and hung over and they're not gonna be sleepwalking like the Sooners. So, drink up and get the fuck home.”

Benny and Ash looked at each other. Ash shrugged, and Benny inclined his head, and they were both suddenly entranced by the pool table.

Dean sat alone with his beer. That had just been weird. He liked Cas, sure. And he liked being around him. He was so different. There was just something really nice about him.

And he smelled really nice too. It was sort of like cookies baking. 

“Soooo, nothing going on between you two?” cooed Meg, who was suddenly, in her unsettling silent way, close by.

“Meg, are you still here?”

“So you wouldn't mind if I gave it a go?” asked Meg, who was busily studying her fingernails.

“Meg, stay the fuck away.”

Meg smiled slyly and raised an eyebrow. “Ouch, touchy.” 

“We've got- We've got a damn match tomorrow. Keep your head in the game.”

“And where's your head, Captain Ahab?” And then she laughed softly and wafted away, leaving Dean even more unsettled than he'd been before.

 

They had gathered at around noontime for the drive to Stillwater. They were used to driving themselves, but then Gabriel, as he had promised, had showed up with a big grin and a limousine with enough room for most of the team. 

Coach Henricksen had begged off, as he didn't want to accept any favors, or anything that even looked like a favor. 

And Dean had determined to make the drive alone, to help clear his head. So it was odd than when Cas had shyly volunteered to keep him company, he had so readily agreed. Sam shot Dean an odd look, but then they were all inside their respective vehicles, and it turned out to be very calming. Cas was in a quiet mood, content to look out the window, and he didn't bitch about Dean's choice of music like Sammy always did.

So they rode a good hour with no sound but the tape deck, Cas staring at the passing landscape, hair bouncing into his eyes. Dean noticed he had to fight the urge to be constantly reaching over and pushing the hair back from Cas's forehead.

“Doesn't that bug you?”

“I'm sorry?” Cas answered.

“The hair?”

Castiel put a hand through the unruly mop, thus rendering it yet more unruly. Dean found himself tempted to stop the car and apply a comb right then and there. He would jam the brake, put the car in park, and then maybe he would climb over into Cas's lap and apply the damn comb....

No, wait.

“Sorry, uh, what did you say?” Dean asked.

Cas looked sweetly baffled and said, “I said it's nice. Like having a weight off. A weight I didn't know I was carrying. If that makes any sense?”

“You get shit about it, I mean, back home?”

“No.” Castiel didn’t elaborate. 

“Are you gonna fight-“

“Not for a while.”

They drove for a while in silence. “So, what’s it like?” Dean finally asked.

Dean glanced to the side and saw those intense eyes trained at him now. “You mean fighting?”

“Yeah.”

Castiel took long enough to answer that Dean wondered if he had once again caused an offense. “It’s difficult for me to explain,” he finally said, eyes now trained out the window once again. “I’ve been training almost since I can remember, and I started fighting when I was quite young as well.”

“How old?” Dean asked.

“Thirteen.”

“Holy shit! I thought fifteen was the minimum age.”

Castiel smiled slightly. “There isn’t a board of regulation. I have heard rumors of swordsmen as young as eleven. Of course, once you start fighting, you are no longer a child.”

“No,” said Dean. Although maybe you’ve never eaten French fries or kissed a girl, he thought.

“The cage has an intensity. In a way. It’s nothing like one of our matches. It is somewhat more akin to the carnival atmosphere of the academic duel we witnessed. But I find I don’t notice the crowd very much. The world shrinks for me, until it’s all about you, your opponents, and your partner. During certain fights – not all but some of them – you will experience a sort of transcendence. It’s difficult to explain, but I feel very much … part of the universal experience in these moments.”

Dean listened with astonishment. He had always thought of those cage matches as four guys wailing on each other, but this sounded sort of poetic. Of course, Cas was an unusual guy. Maybe even unusual for a street fighter. “And that’s why you’re a Religious Studies major?”

He glance over to see Cas was staring at him again, eyes shining. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Dean glanced down at his watch. “Look, we got a ton of time before the game. You wanna stop on the way, grab some lunch? We could get French fries.”

“I usually don’t eat before a game. But I think in this case, yes, that would be enjoyable. Maybe an establishment with tables on the outside? I’ve seen a number of them on the road.”

“You wanna eat your French fries outside, then we’re eating outside,” said Dean. They picked a burger joint with picnic tables on the lawn outside. It was fall, and getting colder, but the day was bright and sunny, so they sat at the roadside and Dean made up ridiculous stories about the cars they saw passing by. “So, you went to live at your training place when you were a kid?”

“I was quite young. Or so they tell me.”

“Do you remember your folks at all?”

“My father, no. I have a dim recollection of my mother, but I don’t know if they’re true or false memories. She was ill. I was given over to what I understand were distant relatives after she died. They’re the ones who sold me to Joshua.”

Dean spat out coke. “Wait, sold you? That’s illegal!”

“So is street fighting,” said Cas, wry smile on his face as he dredged a French fry through hot sauce. “But what about your family, Dean? Is Sam your only brother?”

Dean set down his soda, still feeling rattled. “Yeah, it’s just Sammy and me. Our mom died when we were pretty young too.” Dean fell silent, mopping up the spilled drink with a paper napkin.

“And your father?”

“Dad is…. Well, he’s not much of a family man, I guess. He’s sort of like Ash, in a way, into the conspiracy stuff? He thought there was some connection to our mother’s death. It was just a house fire, so I imagine it was just the wiring. But he brought us up on the road, mostly. Finally, when I was in junior high, I just told him to go fuck off, we’re staying with Uncle Bobby. I’m sort of a screw up, but Sammy is a smart kid, and he needed to be in one school more than a semester. So that’s when I started fencing. Dad had showed me some stuff, mostly for self-defense, but I started getting into it, and actually managed to wrangle a scholarship. I thought there was no way in hell I was ever going to college! Uncle Bobby helped, writing letters and stuff.”

“You started a little late,” said Cas. “At fencing.”

“Oh, yeah, nothing like you. But I pick up things quickly. I guess I’ll be good, but I’ll never be great. But I like being captain. Even if it’s a pain in the fucking ass sometimes.”

“A pain in the fucking ass,” echoed Castiel.

Dean snorted. “Dude, you sound weird when you curse.”

Castiel flushed. “And Bobby is your father’s brother?”

“Oh, no! He’s not a relative. Not a blood relative. He’s one of dad’s closest friends. I guess they were both into the conspiracy thing, way back when. Or something like that. Anyway, he runs a salvage yard, just out of town. You’ll have to meet him, he’s a trip.”

“I would like to meet him,” said Cas softly.

Dean shrugged and looked at his watch. “Oh, shit, lost track of time. Let’s hit the road, don’t wanna get jawing and miss the match!” They gathered up plastic baskets and hit the road.

 

Alastair hesitated for a moment as he head the low growl sounding through the door.

“Come in! I don’t have all day,” came the impatient voice from inside the office.

Alastair steeled himself, and grasped the doorknob. He hated that damn dog. The feeling was, apparently, mutual.

“Coach,” he said as he crossed the threshold. A pair of red eyes glinted up at him. Alastair attended to the odd markings on the floor: for whatever reason, his coach considered the weird sigils painted on the floor to be some kind of good luck charm.

“What is it? I am quite busy today,” sighed the coach, sitting behind his desk, idly scratching the head of a dog at least as big as a small horse.

“He’s playing.”

“Who is playing?” The coach was pretending to stare at some paperwork, but Alastair thought he detected a hint of worry flicker through his eyes.

“The street fighter.” 

The coach tutted, and then gestured for the dog to sit down. With a snarl at Alastair, it did so, curling up on a rug next to the office. “Where did you hear that nonsense? That’s not possible. Not unless he cut his hair!”

“He cut his hair.”

Alastair’s lips curled into a tiny smile as Crowley, currently the most winning coach in the Midwest as well one of the most evil, was caught, for a brief moment, speechless.

“Wipe that fool smirk off your face, Sunshine,” Crowley barked. 

Alastair complied and straightened up. “What are we gonna do about it, Coach?” he asked.

“You? You’re going to do nothing. I will deal with it. With efficiency. As I always do. Now. Go back and practice, or whatever it is you do.” And with that, he waved off Alastair. The player turned on his heel and, with a bitter glance at the dog, who let out a small woof, departed. “And shut the door!”

Crowley leaned back. His hands of their own volition found his lower desk drawer and retrieved a silver flask with odd marking on the side. He uncapped it and took a long pull, and then closed it up, apparently refreshed. “I am surrounded by imbeciles,” he sighed.

“Well, there’s more than one way to skin a street fighter. I always say,” he told the dog. He thereupon scooted his wheeled chair over to a nearby file cabinet and, pulling a silver key from his pocket, opened up the locked bottom drawer.

 

“Will there be a big crowd here, do you think?” Cas asked. They had parked the car near the Oklahoma State dueling court and grabbed their gear.

“Uh, for an away game? Our stands are gonna be kinda bare.” But to Dean’s surprise, there was a decent showing, and the seats were fairly well covered in crimson and blue. 

“Glad you ladies made it,” Coach Henricksen grumbled.

“You guys take the scenic route?” Benny grumped as they took court-side seats.

“We stopped for lunch,” Dean shrugged. 

“Ohhhhh,” said Ash, winking at Benny. 

“What?” asked Dean.

“No judgment!” laughed Ash.

“What is he talking about?” Castiel whispered to Dean.

“They’re morons. Hey, there’s your opponent. Whoa!”

They had put Cas first on the roster once again, and his opponent from the Cowboys had just lumbered onto the field. There was muttering and a couple of impressed whistles from the Jayhawks bleachers: he was a mountain of a guy. Dean immediately wondered if they’d drafted someone off the football team.

“Cas, are you gonna be okay with this?” He must have weighed at least half again what Cas did. 

Castiel stood and stretched. He bent down and whispered in Dean’s ear, “Their coach is an idiot. That man is a club, not a blade.” And then, as if he had all the time in the world, he sauntered down the line of the stands for a while and made a great show of greeting his brother, Sam and Jess where they were sitting. And then he turned and crossed over to the court, deliberately walking several feet in back of where the Cowboys player had lined up on the piste.

The big guy was unnerved, and got his feet in a bit of a tangle turning around to watch a seemingly oblivious Cas cross the mat and walk down to his starting point. But it was pretty clear what Cas had been talking about: the guy was strong, but moving around was like steering a barge. He also seemed easy to rattle.

“Cas is one devious little motor faker,” whispered Benny. “I like him.”

“Me too,” said Dean, now eagerly watching them set up. The big guy looked livid. After their salutes, the official counted off, _“En garde, pret, allez,”_ and the big arm came sweeping down in a massive gesture, as a clattering sounded: with a deft flick of the wrist, Cas had disarmed him, and as his arm uselessly completed the strike, the blade went spinning across the gym, ending up near the KC bench. 

The UK crowd was on its feet, cheering. Disarming didn’t count for extra points, it was just hellishly embarrassing. After the referee had called the duel for him, Castiel ambled over to the fallen sword, stuck a toe under the blade and skillfully flipped it into his hand. And then he sauntered back and offered it up to his opponent who, looking very confused, took it back.

“Dude, you gotta show me the thing with the foot!” Ash told Castiel as he returned to the team’s seating area.

“Don’t practice it barefooted,” Cas grinned. And Dean wanted to hug him. Which made him feel a little weird. But then he got caught up in the match, and helping Henricksen coach the team. Benny was cool as a cucumber as usual, giving his crucifix a quick kiss before he strode out, and Charlie was inevitably the worst, although with a lot of nagging from Cas and Jo, at least she would no longer drop her blade. Jo was being a killer tonight, meaning she and Gordon had probably broken up again, meaning they were set for this match, but then there would be repercussions, and did other team captains have to deal with a fucking soap opera? 

Dean was so distracted he didn’t hear his name called when it was time for his duel, and then he had Cas catch him and hold him close whisper some last minute advice right in his ear, Cas’s lips so close to his face, and it was really lucky Dean could do this in his sleep, because that’s basically what he did, gliding up to the mat and swatting away the guy without his feet touching the ground. 

And then it was the last duel, Gordon easily getting the best of a challenger.

And then they had won. Again!

They began to march out, now all giddy on the unexpected victory. The crowd was a little bit more together this time, now stamping out the KU beat – _stamp, stamp, stamp-stamp, stamp_ – as the team filed out.

 

_Many years ago...._

“Yep, you're gonna stay with me a while,” Bobby told the boy in his arms. Sam was still in his pajamas, and wrapped up in a blanket to boot. “We’ll get you to my place, get you some good hot soup in your belly, and get you to bed.”

“All right Unka Bobby,” sighed Sam, nestling his fevered head on Bobby's shoulder.

“I just need to grab a couple things, Uncle Bobby,” said Dean.

“Dean,” said Bobby. “Listen to me, kid.” He carefully laid Sam down on the ratty couch, making sure the blanket was tucked around him. He turned and squatted down in front of Dean, hands on the boy's shoulders. He spoke quietly. “Dean. I want you to take your time and get everything you and your brother are gonna need. You boys are not coming back here. Not for a while.”

Dean felt his heart leap in his chest. He forced himself to calm down. He had obviously misheard. These kinds of things didn't happen to Sam and Dean. “We're gonna stay with you?” he managed to choke out.

“You're staying with me.”

Dean blinked.

There was not an iota of doubt.

He hurled himself blindly into Bobby's arms, hugging his neck, nearly throwing the older man off balance.

“Hey, you don't wanna choke me, do you?” chuckled Bobby.

Dean pushed Bobby away and wiped a tear. “No, Uncle Bobby.”

Bobby stood up. “All right then. Let's get packing.”

Dean ran to his bedroom.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI since people always ask: this is pretty much finished, and I'm going to try to stick to a schedule of putting up two chapters a week.

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 5 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta.  
 **Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter, there is yet another haircut session, plus a visit to the office of the winning-est fencing coach in the Midwest.

 

_Many years ago…._

“Are you sure about this, Dean?”

“Aw, c’mon, Sammy. Bobby said the guy is out of town.” 

“Why don’t we just wait for Uncle Bobby to come with us?”

“Look, this is a simple job. And we’re getting old enough!” 

“Old enough because you have your driver’s license? It’s not the same thing.”

“Aw, quit making a mountain out of a molehill. We’ll just slip in, do our thing, and bring the files back to Bobby. He’ll thank us! Believe me!”

Sam, sitting in the passenger seat of what had until quite recently been their father's 1967 Chevy Impala, which had been unceremoniously dumped one rainy afternoon at Singer Salvage, gazed over at his obviously clinically insane elder brother. Sam did not look so certain. “All right. But no doggie doors!”

“No doggie doors! Promise.”

Aided somewhat by directions scribbled out on a sheet of scrap paper in Dean's terrible handwriting, they eventually found the residence in question, and Dean pulled up the long black car in back. The house was fairly isolated, which was good. And it was well after dark, which was also good, although Sam was of course worried about school tomorrow.

“I’m definitely too big to get in that doggie door,” Sam huffed as they surveyed the front yard. 

“You don't have to go in the dog door. I told you. Besides, through my uncanny powers of observation, I noticed an open window around the back. And like Bobby says, guard dog means the dude doesn't have motion detectors. We’re set.”

Sam surveyed the drooping chain link fence that demarcated the front of the property, his face a mask of adolescent skepticism. “Not that a guy like this would have an alarm system. You totally sure he's our guy, Dean? This place looks pretty crappy. Like, banjo-playing albino crappy.”

Dean remained sanguine. “What did you expect? Like Uncle Bobby always says, bounty hunters are scum.”

“Yeah, but if they're any good, don't they usually make some money at it? This looks like a neighborhood where cousins marry!”

Dean, effused with confidence, chuckled indulgently. “Sammy. Just do your thing, and when you’re done, I’ll do mine, and we’ll be out of here and you can go back to writing your paper on the history of the flushing toilet or whatever useless thing you’re up to this evening instead of chasing girls.”

Even in the moonlight, Dean saw Sam’s eyes roll. Leaving Sam waiting at the front of the property, Dean hurried around towards the back yard, which was also bounded by rusty, drooping chain link, and found a weak place at the bottom of the fence. He signaled to Sam.

Sam looked back and forth, and then tossed the paper-wrapped package over the fence. He took out a whistle, which blew at a frequency undetectable by human ears.

The small dog door hinged on the bottom of the front door (it looked like a crude custom job) slammed open and a rather surprisingly huge Rottweiler mix burst out. It lumbered over to the package and, after a couple of careful sniffs, began gnawing greedily on the raw meat inside.

Sam signaled, and Dean scrambled under the fence on his belly, then raced across the yard towards the beckoning window, quick as a shadow in the night. He carefully and quietly as possible tugged up the sash and slipped inside: he didn’t even need to jimmy the latch, as the owner hadn’t bothered to leave it locked.

“Amateur,” he chuckled as he showed his flashlight around the room, thanking his lucky stars when he spotted a file cabinet pushed against the wall. He placed the flashlight in his mouth, and with skillful use of his pick, soon had a locked drawer open. “Jackpot,” he said, pulling out some files and showing the light over them. Skillful hands rifled through the files, and he extracted the ones he was looking for.

And then he froze. It wasn’t a sound, but more like the tickling of some sixth sense. He carefully closed the file he was looking at and, shoving the file drawer closed with one hip, slowly turned around, shining the flashlight beam around the room. There were piles of boxes stacked around, an old ratty couch with a dark comforter tossed on top of it, and more cardboard boxes.

He paused. 

He reversed the direction of the flashlight, shining it back on the couch.

The comforter had raised its head. Two eyes blinked back over a grey muzzle.

“Oh. Uh. Hello,” said Dean.

And then the room turned to barking and fur and teeth. Dean flew across the room and pitched headlong out the window, which he had fortunately left open, file clutched under his arm, and then it was a sprint across the dead, unkempt lawn and a running dive under the chain link fence, where a stray wire snagged a belt loop and tore off a good half of the back of his jeans when Sammy grabbed him and pulled him out just a jaw-length ahead of two snapping hounds.

The boys ran to the car accompanied by a chorus of growling and howling and barking, threw themselves inside, and, with a dramatic squeal of tires, were away.

They drove in silence for a good mile or two, both breathing heavily. Dean discovered he still had the file clutched under his arm. He tossed it down on the seat between them. “Two dogs,” he breathed. “Guy didn’t have a dog. Guy had _two dogs_.”

He heard an obnoxious sound from his brother. Dean looked over. “Dude, your pants!” said Sam, pointing to his brother’s wardrobe malfunction.

“Aw. Consider yourself lucky I put on underwear today.” This only made Sam laugh louder, which in turn made Dean laugh too. 

“Uncle Bobby’s gonna kills us, right?” asked Sam.

“Probably. We’re dead men.”

And then shook their heads and laughed some more.

 

_The present day…._

“I could cut your hair.”

Castiel peered curiously down at Jo, wondering if this was some kind of coded message that he had missed. Dean was over at the other side of the locker room, conferring with Coach Henricksen. “I’m sorry?” he told her.

“Your hair!” she repeated, reaching up and putting a hand through it. Castiel shuddered under her touch. “You could come by my mom’s house some time and we could fix it so it’s not in your eyes all the time.”

Castiel didn’t answer, but instead looked anxiously around for Gordon.

Jessica, who was standing beside Jo, told him, “It’s okay, Cas. I’ll be there too. We can hang out and eat pizza or something.”

Castiel tried to weigh his options quickly. Jo was a teammate, and it would be good to be nice to her. But on the other hand, Gordon. But, on the other other hand, Jessica would be there, and she was nice. And she was Sam’s girlfriend, and Sam was Dean’s brother. 

“All right.”

As it turned out, the event included just Jo and Jess, but also Charlie and Pamela. Meg was not there, although Cas suspected she would at some point spring out of the shadows and give him one of those looks. He recognized the predatory gaze from his fights, but wasn’t quite certain what it meant.

But instead he was here inside the Harvelle’s detached garage, sitting in a chair, wrapped up in a bed-sheet, surrounded by four women. It was an intriguing experience, like being on an anthropological mission.

“So you have a girlfriend?” Jo babbled as she trimmed the short hairs near his neck.

“Um. No. Sorry.”

“Jo,” laughed Jessica.

“Do you get to pick, or are they gonna pick one for you?” Jo continued.

“Jo!” said Jess, her tone now a bit more reproachful.

“No!” said Charlie, who was lying on a yoga mat on the floor browsing through a news magazine. The headline read, _Rise of the Roman Empire: Dick Roman on What It Takes to Get to the Top … And Stay There._ “I heard they match you up to breed more street fighters.”

“Sounds like bullshit,” grumbled Pamela, who was sitting on a threadbare old couch drinking iced tea with Jess.

“Charlie is right,” Cas told them. “At the appropriate time, they will pick an, um, appropriate ... person.”

“Wait, those freaky stories are true?” stormed Pamela. “And you put up with that crap?”

Cas shrugged, causing Jo to tilt his head back down with firm hands. “They’re my family. It’s what’s expected of me.”

“Fuck that noise!” said Pamela. 

Jo blew on the back of Cas's neck, making him jump, and pulled off the sheet with a flourish, scattering bits of dark hair everywhere. She handed him a large, cracked hand mirror, and went to get a broom to sweep up the bits of hair from the floor. Cas stared at himself. He was accustomed to studying his own reflection, as it was customary to practice forms in front of a mirror. But he had never paid much attention to his own face before, especially as it had been draped in hair for so long now. He studied it critically now: all eyes and lips and strange craggy cheekbones. He frowned in great disappointment. He wanted his face to be pleasing to the eye, the way Dean's face appeared so perfect.

And also, despite the haircut, his hair still stuck out every which way. 

“Your masterpiece is all done?” asked Pamela, who walked over along with Jess to surround Cas. She thrust her hands into his hair. “It's really wiry.”

“Yeah, it's pretty wiry,” said Jess, who was also molesting Cas's head. “Do you have product Jo?”

“Yeah, he needs product,” tutted Pamela.

“I don't keep any of that girlie stuff around!” said Jo. “Want some super glue?” Cas cringed.

“I've got stuff in my bag!” Charlie announced, pouncing for her gym bag. She pulled out a pink feather boa and a pair of fairy wings, and then extracted a squeeze bottle. Jess grabbed it and began to apply it to a rather flustered Castiel's hair while Pamela looked on critically.

“What do you think?” asked Jess.

“Hrm,” said Pamela.

“Will Dean like it?” giggled Jo.

Castiel found himself wanting to sink down into the chair and disappear. 

“Be careful. With Dean I mean,” Pamela told Cas.

“What, the man-slut?” asked Jo, rolling her eyes.

“Jo!” said Jess. “You dated him.”

“You did?” asked Cas.

Jo narrowed her eyes. “For a week. I think it was his personal record.”

Castiel decided he was unhappy with the direction this conversation was taking. “Uh. Pamela. You're not on the team anymore?” was the first thing that popped into his head.

The diversion worked. Pamela heaved a sigh and removed her dark glasses. “These ain't cause I think I'm a movie star. Yeah. I fought one of Crowley's girls. Ruby. She's a real prize.”

“That's Meg's old team,” said Jo, and there were a lot of angry glances. 

“I'm sorry,” said Castiel, who was at last allowed out of the chair.

“Anyway, it was scary as shit. I went down when she hit me, and when they got me up, I couldn’t see out of one eye. I got a detached retina, but I guess I'm lucky because managed to reattach it. But it took a while to heal, and I've still got double vision. No depth perception. I'm useless.”

“Because you can't see?” asked Cas.

“Uh, yeah, that would do it,” cracked Pamela.

Castiel grabbed an electrical dueling blade from the rack on Jo's garage wall. He flicked the switch. “But you can still hear the hum, correct.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You know how high it's set?” he asked, clicking the switch. The hum changed pitch as the setting went higher.

“Yeah.”

Cas swept the blade in a graceful arc. “You feel the wind on your face as it goes by. Smell the scent of ozone. You can hear your opponent's footsteps.” He shuffled his feet. “You can smell the sweat on him, and know he's nervous.”

“Okay, Cas, what the hell are you going on about?”

Cas didn't answer but grabbed down another sword and handed it to Pamela. And then he crouched down near Charlie's bag and grabbed a scarf. Charlie giggled. It was a pink scarf. She helped him tie it around his head like a blindfold. And then he turned to face Pamela. “You should probably keep the setting low. Two, perhaps?”

Pamela scowled at him, but turned on her sword. Cas gave her the sign to come on. She waved her blade uncertainly, and then brought it down at him. 

Quick as a cat, he parried.

Charlie jumped up and down, clapping. “He's using the Force!”

“Can I try?” pleaded Jo. “That’s so weird!”

“Give us a minute,” Cas told her.

Pamela backed up, and then got into ready position again. She squinted one eye shut, and then attacked again. Cas parried. She tried one more time, feinting right and attacking left, but he once again caught her.

“How the hell are you doing that?” asked Pamela.

“I'm paying attention.”

Jo finally whined enough that they gave her the blindfold, and she did utterly terribly against Pamela, which caused rather a lot of amusement. 

“You could try this, Pammy! For your bad eye!” said Charlie, grabbing something out of her bag.

“Why does this eyepatch had a skull and crossbones on it?” sighed Pamela.

“I was from our pirate role play. Oh come on, you’ll look badass!” urged Charlie. 

Pamela rolled her eyes, but suffered to be bedecked in pirate finery. And then she lined up against the still blindfolded Jo, and started kicking her ass.

“Ow!” wailed Jo, as she was struck for the umpteenth time. She tore off the scarf, tossing it at Cas. “Here, you be the Blind Man. Pammy is a killer.”

Pamela grinned. “I just keep imagining you’re that bitch, Ruby.”

Cas let Jess tie on the blindfold again, and then got into his ready position.

And then he turned on his heel, whirling around, preparing to strike out in back of him.

“Wait!” a voice pleaded.

Cas tore off the blindfold.

“Meg!” yelled Jo.

“Meg, you don’t sneak up on people with ignited swords, you idiot,” scolded Pamela.

Castiel lowered his sword, clicking it off. “Why are you here, Meg?”

“Look,” she said, “I know I’m not invited to your little slumber party. And I’m not in the special sparkly cheerleaders club. Boo-hoo. But I gotta talk to Dean. I mean, it’s urgent.” She looked searchingly at Cas. “And I figured he wouldn’t be far from you?”

“I’ll get him,” said Jess, rolling her eyes and grabbing her cell phone.

“Were you really gonna clobber me?” Meg asked Cas.

“Probably.”

Meg looked offended. “He’s deadly with that blindfold on,” bitched Jo.

“Can he see in the dark or something?” asked Meg.

“He’s a Jedi!” said Charlie.

“What is a geddy?” asked Castiel.

“Dean’s on his way,” said Jess, closing her phone.

The front door to Jo’s house opened, and Ellen emerged, wiping her hands on an apron. “Well hello there, Miss Masters,” said Ellen. “Would you like some iced tea?”

“Um, yes. Please?” said Meg.

“Mom,” grumbled Jo.

“Why don’t you go inside and get a glass for your guest, Joanna Beth?” asked Ellen, and Jo, muttering, disappeared inside.

“Yeah, Joanna Beth,” snickered Meg.

“And no sass, young lady,” lectured Ellen. “I know how to use a sword too.”

“Um. Yes ma’am,” said Meg.

“I like Mrs. Harvelle,” Castiel whispered to Jess, who giggled and, to his utter embarrassment, put an arm around his shoulders.

Dean’s Impala was soon pulling into the driveway. “So what’s the big deal?” asked Dean as he and Sam emerged. He walked up to Cas. “Hey! Have you got stuff in your hair?”

Cas nodded sheepishly.

“I need to talk to Dean. Alone,” said Meg. 

“And this is an emergency?”

“I might be off the team,” said Meg, who was now staring at the ground. Some of the girls muttered to each other. 

“Oh, okay,” said Dean.

“You can talk in the den, if you want,” said Ellen, pointing towards the house.

“Thanks Ellen. Come on,” Dean said to Cas, as Sam and Jo also started to follow.

“I said I would just talk to Dean!” Meg protested.

“My lawyer hears it too,” said Dean, indicating Sam. He then, with no explanation at all, grabbed Cas’s arm and led him inside along with Sam and Jo. Meg followed sullenly along, and they all assembled in the Harvelle’s basement, where Dean hopped up to sit on the bar, Cas seating himself on a barstool nearby. “So what’s the emergency?”

Meg thumped down on one of the worn couches. “Okay, first, you can’t tell Coach Henricksen. Not any of you. You’ll see why.” There were nods all around, and Meg took in a breath. “I cheated. I mean, I did it, I’m guilty. So that’s not the issue.”

“What’s the issue then?” asked Sam, who was sitting nestled next to Jess on the other couch.

“So, this was back at Kansas State. One of my TAs gave us this weird fucking take home exam for the final. I mean, it was open book and all, but the questions were just freaky! Nobody could figure out what the fuck, so we all finally just started working together on it. I know it was against the rules, but I didn’t wanna flunk. It was a required class, and I needed to keep up my grades for my scholarship.

“Anyway, we turned it in and it was fine. But then later it turned out Crowley had found out. I guess somebody squealed.”

“So, he wanted to kick you off the team?” asked Dean.

“No! That was the really screwed up thing! I mean, it was SOP for that rat bastard, but this was more held over our heads-“

“Wait, more than one of you?” asked Sam.

Meg glowered at Sam. “Yeah, more than one of us,” she mocked. “What are you, some kind of boy scout? It was obviously a set-up. Anyway, he kept the memo locked in his office, and it was left hanging over our heads, do what I say, and win, or else.”

Sam sighed and threw up his hands. “You want us to believe Crowley set you up?”

“You don’t know the guy!” said Meg. “He’s pure evil.”

“Sounds like someone you’d like, Meg,” grumbled Dean.

“Isn’t Crowley the most winning coach in the conference?” Cas interjected.

Meg turned towards him. “He doesn’t even really coach, pretty boy! He leaves that all the Alastair. He just sits at the sidelines, drinks from his little flask and bellows at people.”

“Alastair’s the one who cracked my ribs,” said Dean, reflexively feeling his side.

“I will fight him this time, Dean,” said Cas, who quite suddenly had a homicidal gleam in his eye.

“Um,” said Dean, who wasn’t quite certain if he was a little afraid or slightly turned on, or maybe a mix of both.

“Go kick the bastard’s ass,” said Meg. “I don’t care. But that’s when I said fuck this shit and applied for a transfer. I wasn’t gonna spend my days under Crowley’s thumb. And I heard nothing else about it for a whole year. But then this morning I got an anonymous text message with an image of the memo attached.” She pulled out her phone and tossed it over to Dean.

Dean squinted at the screen. “And the sender is … Ann O'Nymus?”

“But it’s pretty fucking clear what it means,” said Meg. Dean had to agree. 

“So what do you want us to do about it, Meg?” asked Sam.

“Well, I know I can’t go to Coach Hardass,” said Meg.

“Henricksen will kick your ass off the team,” Dean gleefully supplied, tossing back the phone. 

Meg looked back and forth between Sam and Dean. “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush. I know what you guys used to do. I mean, before college and you turned all straight arrow.”

Dean grinned smugly, but Sam looked flustered. Cas looked between the two of them, confused. 

“Uh, I think I’ll go out and see how the girls are doing,” said Jess, who abruptly stood and left, leaving Cas even more uncertain.

“So I repeat,” said Dean, leaning forward. “What do you think we can do for you?”

Meg huffed. “It’s all in that office. In his files. There’s this memo. But there’s other stuff. I mean, the whole team is dirty. I know for one thing they’re flunking.”

“And juicing?”

“Alastair, definitely. And several of the other guys. And I’m sure he’s keeping blackmail material on all of the other teams. It’s a freaking treasure trove, you guys.”

“So we just waltz right in and ask Crowley to open up his files?” asked Dean, who was grinning and batting his eyes while Sam shifted over to sit on the same couch as Meg. 

“Quit playing dumb, Winchester!” fumed Meg. “Look I’m not gonna pretend I have this super hot team spirit or anything. But I do wanna play on the team and beat those assholes. Just like you do. And you know I’m off, you’re short your quota of female players. Unless you wanna clone Charlie.”

Dean pulled up his legs to sit cross-legged up on the bar. “How about I talk to Sam?”

Meg nodded glumly and rose. “Okay. Thanks. I guess.” She started towards the door. “Oh, and one more thing?”

Dean squinted at her. This was never good news.

“Crowley’s sort of … got a guard dog.”

Dean didn’t reply, but mouthed, “Oh, fuck.” Meg shrugged and slumped out of the den.

“Dean,” said Sam.

“Why is there always a dog?” grumbled Dean, hopping off the bar and going behind it to prowl for snacks. “I fucking hate dogs.”

Sam angrily crossed his arms. “Well, yeah, there’s that, and we could get our asses kicked not only off the team, but out of school.”

“For fucking with Kansas State? Heh. They’ll give us a medal.” Dean brought out a jar of cocktail peanuts and poured himself a generous, salty handful.

Castiel managed to work up the courage to speak. “Dean, what was Meg talking about? About what you did before?”

Dean held out the jar of peanuts to Castiel, who allowed Dean to shake a greasy pile into his hand. Dean leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’ve heard of the underground railroad?”

Cas nearly choked on his cashews. “You…” he managed to sputter.

“Our Uncle Bobby,” said Sam.

Cas’s mind was reeling. It was like something out of a novel. “Isn’t it … stealing?”

“Not if you don’t get caught!” said Dean.

“Involuntary servitude is unethical!” said Sam. “It violates fundamental principles of human dignity!”

“Plus it’s fun.” Dean held out his hands. “We used to do jobs for Uncle Bobby. When we were small.”

“Yeah, when we were kids, Dean,” said Sam, running his hands through his hair. “Crowley’s got a dog. You hate dogs.”

“Yeah, but we got a guy who can walk up walls!” said Dean, reaching over to grab Cas’s shoulder. 

 

“So, you helped people escape?” asked Cas as he and Sam quietly followed Dean sneaking through the Kansas State campus in the dark of the night. He still wasn’t entirely certain why he had been invited along, but when Dean had asked him, he could hardly say no. When he had asked why he was needed, the brothers had simply muttered something confusing about a doggie door.

“The building with Crowley's office is thataway,” whispered Dean, who hurried off into the dark.

“They had already escaped,” Sam explained. “We mostly set them up with fake IDs and a new identity. And we'd get the bounty hunters off their trail.” 

“That was the origin of street fighting!” said Cas appreciatively.

“Yeah, Cas, but there’s other ways besides fighting those scumbags directly,” Dean told him.

Sam nodded. “Uncle Bobby used to have us break into their offices and grab their files. It usually wasn’t too hard. They're paranoid, but they're usually pretty stupid. This started way back when we pretty small, and I could still fit through a doggie door. There’s always a dog. Always.”

Cas squinted at Sam. Yes, it had probably been a while since he had been that small. Although, for such a large person, Sam seemed very adept at melting into the shadows. Cas carefully followed his lead. There wasn't supposed to be a lot of security around the campus at night, and they all had fake K-state ID cards with fanciful names, but it was probably best that they were not stopped. They drew near a brick building beside a large oak tree. A sign near the door read Pratchett Hall. 

Sam and Cas crouched next to Dean, who was hiding behind a hedge. “This is it.”

“Why is this nowhere near the athletics complex?” asked Cas.

Sam and Dean rolled their eyes. “Because Crowley has no interest in actually coaching,” said Sam. “So what’s the plan for getting in?” he asked Dean.

“Look, Sammy, it's like they're inviting us in.” Dean pointed upwards: indeed, up on the second floor, set back on a narrow ledge, a window had been left open. 

“You’re telling me you’re gonna climb up?” Sam asked Dean. “You get nauseous standing on a step ladder.”

“Not me, Cas!”

“Uh, me?” asked the same.

Dean stared at him. “Can you do it?”

Castiel stared back. “Yes. Yes, of course, I can do it.”

“Great!” said Dean, clapping him on the shoulder. Sam looked more skeptical. “Fuse box?” Dean asked Sam.

“Yeah, I'll go find it,” said Sam. 

“We'll wait until the lights are cut,” said Dean. “Just in case there's alarms on any of the windows. If there’s a dog, there’s no motion detectors, but I’ve learned you can never be too careful.” Dean unconsciously rubbed a hand on his butt, remembering a pair of hopelessly torn jeans.

Sam disappeared around the corner of the building while Cas gazed upwards, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into. He would have to climb a tree, which would probably be easy enough, and then traverse a very narrow ledge to reach the open window.

Dean dumped his bag on the ground and squatted down next to it. He pulled out a plastic ziploc and gave it to Cas. “In case of dog.”

Cas stuck the item in his messenger bag and, making sure the straps for the bag and for his sword were secure, turned around and walked towards the oak tree. “You need a boost?” asked Dean, who was hurrying after him. Cas smiled and nodded. Why not? Dean leaned over and interlaced his hands, and Cas stepped lightly into them and caught the tree's lowest branches. He swung up, and then carefully clambered his way to the long branch that continued upwards to drape over the ledge on the second floor. Really, the ledge looked less narrow from up here. It was probably wider than a balance beam, he told himself. Of course, the balance beam was a couple feet high, and this was a good twenty feet up, but Castiel had never been particularly chary about heights. 

Glancing down to where Dean was standing on the ground, he signaled that he was ready, and Dean signaled back to hold up. He sat on the branch in the chill night air and waited and, not for the first time, wondered what he had done in his life to come to be burglarizing the office of someone who, despite some misdeeds, had never personally done him any harm.

The lights switched off, and Castiel snapped out of his reverie. Dean, down on the ground, signaled to go, so Cas shinnied the rest of the way from the branch to the building, and then stepped off onto the ledge, placing one foot and then the other to first make sure the aging masonry was able to support his weight. He sighted up to the darkened open window, checked the position of his feet, and then quickly glanced down to make certain Dean was watching him.

He smiled. And then he took off running, graceful as a cat.

Easier than the balance beam: he didn't have any guys whacking on him! He halted on a dime outside the window, and once again flicked a quick look down below him, where Dean, at least from the tense silhouette, appeared to be appropriately impressed. Cas squatted down and slid two hands beneath the window sash and very gently pushed up just enough to afford his entrance. 

And then he slipped inside, into the dark room. He immediately turned back to the window and slowly lowered the wooden sash back to exactly its starting position.

He froze.

It was such a soft sound: nails clicking on floorboards.

Very slowly and deliberately, he turned to face the darkened room.

“Uh. Hello?”

 

Dean was on the verge of breaking into the back door when he heard the soft click of the latch opening.

“Cas!” he whispered harshly. “I nearly had a heart attack when you fucking ran down the ledge! Are you-” But the rest of his thought was lost as Cas slapped a hand over his mouth and yanked Dean inside the building, quietly but firmly shutting the door behind them.

Dean gesticulated, and Cas suddenly removed his hand. And then Dean yelped when he felt the soft paws on his shoulders, and a large tongue running across his mouth. “Ugh!”

A dog the size of a small horse dropped back to its four paws, snatched up a bone from the floor, ran around in a delighted circle, and then nestled down on the floor. 

“He appeared to appreciate your present,” said Cas, indicating the bone.

“That is the biggest fucking dog in the entire world,” breathed Dean. 

“According to his collar, his name is Growley.”

“Uh. Hiya, Growley dude.”

The dog did not pause from chawing the bone, but the tail did stick up in a cheery wag.

“I think I spotted the room that might be Crowley's office down the hall.” Cas started to go, but then turned around and grabbed Dean's arm and half dragged him along. Growley picked up his bone and padded after them.

The stopped by a door bearing Crowley's nameplate. “This particular door was locked, whereas the others I've tried have all been opened.”

Dean appeared to gain back some of his self-possession. “Okay. All right. Hold this, but keep it low,” he said, handing over a flashlight to Cas. Dean slipped on some gloves, and then took out his lock pick and, while Cas watched, fascinated, coaxed the door open. They both slipped into the room, carefully shutting the door in front of Growley, who let out a small, disappointed whine, and then returned to the floor to gnaw on his juicy steak bone.

Dean and Cas both trailed flashlights around the office, but paused for a long moment at the large oil portrait hanging in back of the desk. 

Cas tilted his head. “Is that … Coach Crowley?”

“Yeah. Well, after a few months with a personal trainer. And a facelift.” Dean shook his head and continued to train his flashlight around. The entire floor was painted with a large symbol. Cas at first thought it was the K-state logo, but it appeared to be a strange six-sided polygon with many intricate lines drawn within. It was partly hidden underneath Crowley’s desk, so they were unable to be certain.

“Ah. File cabinet.” Dean walked over and pulled open the first drawer, second, third, and finally, tugged on the bottom drawer. “Locked drawer. Think we'll have something.” Dean took out his pick again and got to work, and the lock soon yielded. He pulled out the file drawer, and began flipping through it. “Holy shit! Meg was right. This is a treasure trove.”

Dean flipped out a couple of file folders and set them out on what was evidently Crowley's desk. Dean and Cas hovered over, shining lights on the pages. “Man. This is unbelievable. His whole team is on academic probation.”

“Why would he keep such incriminating records?” asked Cas. He directed his light at the door, where there came the soft sound of scratching. “I don't think Growley is happy about being excluded.”

“Like Meg said, he wants something over everyone.” Dean flipped over another file. “And this is dirt on the other teams. See? He moved Meg's stuff over to our folder.”

Cas peered over Dean's shoulder as Dean flipped to a page that bore their Coach's picture. “Coach Henricksen?”

“But he's clean as a whistle,” mused Dean, scanning down the page. He paused. He read over the paragraph again, and gave a low whistle.

“Is that true?” asked Cas.

“Holy shit. I guess so.” Dean looked uncertainly over the files. “Boy, there's a lot here.”

“Do we take it?”

“No. We wanna leave this place exactly like we found it.” Dean frowned, scanning the room. “That's Crowley's copy machine, let me see if I can work out how to use it. And can you do something about your buddy?” he added, inclining his head to where Growley was still scratching and whining outside the door.

Dean went to poke at the Xerox machine while Cas opened the door for the biggest dog in the world. Growley dropped his bone just inside the door and immediately padded over towards Dean, who was currently cursing out the very complicated combination fax/printer/copier. “I bet he has a secretary do all this crap. Hey!” he scolded Growley, who placed his front paws on the counter and nosed the machine.

Which clicked on and whirred to life.

Dean and Cas exchanged an amused glance. “Okay,” said Dean. “Keep everything organized exactly the way you found it. We'll give ourselves,” he consulted his watch, “ten minutes, and then we pack and move.” So, while Growley happily chewed on his bone and watched, Cas and Dean committed a great chunk of the locked file drawer to the copy machine. And then they set everything back, and locked the file drawer, and cleared out of the office. After, that is, one last rather baffled glance at the huge oil painting of Crowley. “I really wanna spray paint a mustache on that puppy,” said Dean, panning his flashlight on the monstrosity one last time. “All right, let's get out of here and find Sammy.”

With a reluctant goodbye to Growley they fled the office building and hastened around to the back of the building, where Sam was waiting very impatiently for them. “I was ready to send out the dogs,” he muttered, throwing the switch on the electrical box and making the power go back on for this section of campus.

“Oh, we found the dog all on our own. Cas has a new friend,” said Dean.

“What, Crowley's guard dog?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, he's more of a pussycat than a dog. Anyway, we gotta get all this stuff back so we can get the anonymous 'blackmailer' off Meg before the game.”

Once they had gotten back to the car and put some miles between themselves and K-State, they decamped to an all-night fast food joint. Sam spread a few of the documents over the sticky tabletop to assess the blackmail potential of each. Meanwhile, Dean pulled a padlock and his pick out of his jacket pocket and began to demonstrate elementary lock picking to an enthralled Castiel.

“Are you sure this is the place to do that?” whispered Sam irritably as he shook dressing on his salad shaker.

“Dude. There's no one else here, and the kid behind the counter just unlocked Link's Master Sword on his Gameboy.” Sam turned towards the check-out counter and smiled as he heard the distinctive beep of Nintendo music. Dean handed the padlock off to Cas, who occupied himself with the pick. “You know, you nearly gave me a heart attack when you ran across the ledge like that.”

“He did what?” asked Sam.

As Cas struggled not to smile, Dean said, “He climbed the tree up to the second floor, and then there's this like three inch ledge...”

“It was at least six inches,” Cas told them with a great amount of false modesty.

“Anyway, he hops off the branch and fucking skips down the ledge.”

“It was more of a controlled run than a skip.” To Cas's astonishment, the padlock popped open in his hands. 

“There you go, top shelf,” said Dean, putting his hand up for a fist bump.

“Well,” said Sam, returning to the spread of incriminating evidence in front of him, “I'd say this is the one to drop in the mailbox.”

Dean and Cas leaned over to see. “Oh, I didn't get a good look at these!” said Dean. 

“Coach Crowley looks very different with a mustache,” commented Cas, who was tilting his head like a dog to gaze at the picture.

“Coach Crowley looks very different when he's wearing pants,” laughed Dean. 

“What I don't understand is why he would keep blackmail material on himself!” said Sam.

“Hey, probably not old enough to remember, but Uncle Bobby says after the Nixon/Ervin duel, they found President Nixon had been taping himself in his office: everything he said!”

“That's just weird,” said Sam. He pulled at a corner of the photo sitting on the table. “Did Nixon ever party dressed like the Fuehrer?”

“I dunno, Sammy. Anyway slap it in an envelope and let's get out of here,” said Dean. “We're still gonna have a time of it against those guys. Even with Meg on the team.”

“I believe Pamela will be able to return,” said Cas.

Both Dean and Sam, who had stood up, paused and looked at him. “What?” asked Dean.

Cas squirmed out of the booth. “I was working with her the other day. She is very talented, despite limited practice time in the past few months, but I believe we can get her up to speed for the latter part of the season.”

“Cas. I could hug you,” said Dean. “In fact-” And with that, he engulfed the rather surprised duelist in a big hug. And then he yelled, “Come on, group hug,” and grabbed in a laughing Sam as well.

Later that night (or really that morning) after they had dropped Cas off to the ever-present town car, Sam looked over from the passenger seat at his brother and asked, “So, exactly how bad do you have it for that guy.”

“What?”

“Okay, Dean, you have his pin-up picture in your room.”

Sam thought Dean was going to drive into the ditch. “It's- It's not a pin-up! It's just a picture of a street fight.”

“What are you gonna tell him when he sees your room?”

“Why would he see my room?”

Sam scowled at his brother's serious lack in the brain cell department. “Okay, let's put it this way. Why do you think he pulled that crazy stunt breaking into the building?”

“What crazy stunt?”

“Running across the ledge like that? You said so yourself!”

“Oh, it looked pretty safe.”

“Dean, do I need to remind you that standing up on a chair makes you hurl!”

“Sammy, believe me, man. There's nothing there. I am Dean Winchester, and I'm just a simple one hundred-woman kinda guy.”

“One hundred women?”

“Per month.”

Sam sighed heavily and slumped down in the seat as Dean pulled into the Singer Salvage yard. The exited the car and quietly as possible, entered Bobby's huge, rambling residence, being very careful to drop their boots and weaponry in the mudroom before they entered the house proper.

“You finally done with the damned secret mission?” came a cranky voice. 

“Bobby,” said Dean, feeling his chest to make sure his heart didn't hop out. “You still awake?”

“Still awake? It's the morning, you dimwits.” And indeed, he was holding a fresh cup of coffee and a newspaper. He scanned the boys with great suspicion. “So where's your street fighter buddy?”

“We sent him back home. Why?”

“Just curious as to what all the fuss was about. You got his damn centerfold up in your room.”

“IT'S NOT A CENTERFOLD,” Dean protested as Sam smirked.

 

_Many years ago…._

Bobby squinted at the dog-eared file in front of him on the kitchen table. He took off his reading glasses, frowned at them, and set them down, finally looking up at Sam and Dean, who hovered nervously nearby.

“You know, I should tan your hides. The both of you,” he mused, his fingers tracing a strange symbol that had seemingly been scribbled in ball point pen onto the cover of the file. 

“But?” urged Dean as Sam cringed.

“You boys have helped give somebody a new life. And I can’t argue with that.” 

“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”

“I gotta say, there’s more than a little of your daddy in you boys.”

Dean was beaming. Sam abruptly stood up.

“I’m nothing like him. I am nothing like John,” Sam declared. And then, muttering something about a homework assignment, he stalked out of the kitchen.

“Sammy,” said Dean.

“Dean,” said Bobby. “Let the boy go. Now, I’m speaking to you, son. You’re the oldest. This is more dangerous than you think.”

“Look, Uncle Bobby, I promise, next time, we’ll get a count of the dogs.” Dean ruefully hitched up his sweat pants.

“That’s aint what I’m talking about. And there won’t be a next time,” said Bobby. “Not until you kids are older at least.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dean.

Bobby folded his hands. “There’s things out there – more’n dogs – things you got no comprehension of.”

“What kind of things?”

Bobby was unconsciously tracing the odd symbol on the folder. “There’s time for that. Later. Right now, you kids got other things to worry about. Like being kids. And don’t you got homework too?”

“Uh….”

“Dean Winchester, you listen to me. While you’re under my roof, it’s still my rules. And my first rule is, you finish your damn education. Then if you want to go off and be a idjit like your daddy, then, it’s your damn funeral. But for now, you be a kid. And you let your brother be a kid. I know it seems like forever, I remember being your age, but believe me, you don’t got a lot of time left.”

Dean studied Uncle Bobby, his lips forming a reply, rejecting it, and then searching for another. Finally he said, “All right, Uncle Bobby. But, we, uh, did okay?”

“You done good here. Now do go your damn homework.”

Dean grinned wide and departed. Bobby’s eyes drifted once again down to the file, and the odd doodle on the cover: a strange six-sided polygon with many intricate lines drawn within.

“Time enough for that later,” he mused, grabbing up the file and going to put it away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 6 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta.   
**Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter, we check in on Dick Roman, and Crowley makes an appearance.

 

It was a meeting of the board of Niveus Pharmaceuticals. Dr. Gaines, the current Chief Technical Officer, was busily flipping through his Blackberry device, scrolling through anime porn.

Well, it was a bit more exciting than the board meeting.

He did glance up as the meeting room doors burst open. Protestors? In here? It could be diverting.

They were all armed, which wasn’t surprising. One of them – the leader, presumably – strode confidently through the room as his men spread themselves out along the perimeter. When he had reached the end of the table, across from the CEO, he announced, “I’m Dick Roman. You may have heard of me. I have a New York Times bestseller!”

Several of the board members raised their cell phones to capture the moment.

“Yes. What are you doing here, Mr. Roman?” inquired Mr. Brady, the current Chairman of the Board.

“Why, I have come to challenge you to a duel of honor for the chairmanship of Niveus.” For emphasis, Roman drew and flourished his blade. It looked brand new and rarely used.

“Oh, not again,” sighed Mr. Brady. Mr. Brady was grey-haired, but as he rose and an aide helped him doff his jacket, it was quite clear that Mr. Brady spent quit a lot of his time at the gym, working on his dueling technique. “Bring on your second so we can get this over with.”

“Oh, you’re not dueling me,” grinned Roman. “You’re dueling my honorably appointed surrogate, as specified in your by-laws.”

“Who?” asked Brady.

Another figure moved through the door. A large man with sandy blond hair and cruel eyes. “Please meet my associate, Mr. Samyaza.”

 

“A recruiting trip?” asked Cas. He and Gabriel rode in back of the town car on the way back to the dojo. As usual, the driver remained silent in the front seat.

“Yeah. It's just gonna be a couple weeks. No problemo.”

“But … who are you going to be recruiting?”

“Fighters,” said Gabriel, who focused out the window.

“Not apprentices?”

“It's a new era, Cas.”

Castiel regarded his brother. “Gabriel. They are going to leave their homes? Their families?”

Gabriel sighed and finally looked at Castiel. “Yes. The old bonds, they're falling away. We've got to keep up.”

“Is that what you think, or what Zachariah thinks?”

“Cassie, look kid, it doesn't matter how good or how bad we are at sticking to some arbitrary standards of what's traditional and what's not. If we can't wrangle the big money matches, we're fucked. They want some big guys making a big noise.”

“And if they want more injuries? More deaths?”

“Oh, now come on! Is that fair? Look, be logical! If you kill off all the guys, you won't have a sport.”

“And these men, the ones demanding drugged up fighters, do you think they'll care? If skill and tradition are no longer involved, just juice up some football players and let them go. No one cares about their ridiculous sport anyway.”

“Cassie....”

“It's no longer my sport, Gabriel! This wasn't what Joshua raised me for.”

“Well, Joshua's out of the picture now.”

Castiel thumped back against the seat, quietly seething. “Gabriel, when I graduate-”

“Castiel!” Cas actually jumped. Gabriel was slow to anger, but when his ire was raised, he could be ferocious. He glared over to his brother fighter. “Listen to me. I'll be gone two weeks. _Two weeks_. I get back, we'll talk. I promise. But until then, cut the crap. You hear me, baby bro?”

Castiel nodded, but didn't reply, and they finished the ride back in silence, Cas quietly returning to his dorm room and sliding into bed.

 

“What's gotten into you?”

Cas glared at Dean, and then went back to hacking at the training dummy. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you come into practice looking like you wanna kill, you don't talk to anybody, and then you ruin two training dummies.” There was a crash as the padded opponent fell to the ground. “ _Three_ training dummies. We need to go for French fries.”

“No, Dean. We do not need to go for French fries.”

“CASTIEL!” Coach Henricksen stood and glowered. He looked at the ruined training dummy, and then at Cas.

Cas blinked, as if he were coming out of a daze. “Um. I'm sorry Coach. I-”

“WINCHESTER.”

Dean's smile was slow and wide. “Yeah, Coach?”

“Take you buddy for a walk. NOW.” And with that the coach turned on his heel and stalked off towards his office and his awaiting pack of Marlboros.

“Come on,” urged Dean, grabbing Cas's arm. “Don't wanna give the coach lung cancer.” Castiel allowed himself to be dragged along, with absolutely everyone on the floor stopping to stare at them while they departed. They ended up making a circle of the campus, Cas charging along fuming, Dean imagining steam rising up out of his ears.

After a couple of circuits, Dean asked, “All right, you gonna tell me what's going on or you gonna let me wear out my goddam boots?” They were near a fountain. Dean sat down on a bench and indicated Cas should do the same. 

“There's nothing wrong.”

“Yeah, I got that. So what's wrong?”

Cas sat down on the bench next to Dean, every muscle tensed. 

“You're gonna give yourself a stroke.”

“Gabriel is gone. He's recruiting new people to join our dojo.”

Dean studied Cas for a while. “You miss Gabriel?”

“Dean! People don't come and go in my sport! It's a violation of every tradition! Everything that makes us what we are! You are raised with certain values. Your house is your family. Part of what you are.”

“You don't want new blood coming into your dojo? You mean, like I brought you in to the fencing team?”

Cas stopped and glared. “That is completely and totally different.”

“How? And you know, you're not exactly a traditional fencer. But with some of my crack training and a decent haircut,” Dean reach over and, to Cas's intense irritation, put a hand through Cas's hair, “you've come along okay.”

“This is different, Dean. Don't you see?”

“Well, let me put it this way. So, when you were a tiny kid, some people who might not have even been blood relatives sold you to a guy, and now you're stuck there? For the rest of your life?”

Cas opened his mouth, intending to go off on a rant again, but instead paused. _Leaving._ It hadn't occurred to him before now. 

“Why the heck you going to college anyway?” Dean continued. “I mean, you're gonna graduate right? And then just go back to fighting like before?”

“I can't continue to fight. Not forever,” Cas told him.

But Dean was off on a rant of his own. “I mean, you're not just super-talented. You're really smart! I've never had that problem. But you could be anything, you know?”

“Joshua wouldn't have approved.”

“But you've said Joshua isn't around any more?”

“No.”

“Well, then, isn't it about time you started thinking for yourself?”

“I think for myself.”

Dean leaned towards Cas. “I know you do, pal. Just think about this. If you don't get out, if you stay around, you might end up like Gabriel. Or worse. Like that last guy you fought.”

Dean immediately regretted his words. Cas went pale, the words choked out. “That fight shouldn't have ended that way.”

“We don't want that to happen to you. Right?”

Castiel was listening closely now, his eyes searching Dean. “ _You_ don't?”

“No, _I_ don't want that to happen,” Dean admitted. 

Cas exhaled and sat back on the bench. There was silence for a moment, nothing but the sound of water trickling through the fountain. “I'm sorry about all the training dummies, Dean. Do you think Henricksen will be … pissed?”

Dean leaned over and affectionately gripped Cas's shoulder. “He'll be just fine as long as we kick Crowley's ass.”

 

The campus was bedecked in crimson and blue.

“We're going to have spectators tonight I think,” grinned Dean over a plate of French fries. The three boys sat hunched over a picnic table in the quad, Dean and Cas's weapons stashed politely at their feet.

“Shouldn't you have, like, a main course with those fries?” worried Sam, who hadn't even deigned to taste a salad today.

Castiel looked up from where he was stuffing his face. “I like French fries, Sam. They're very tasty with ranch dressing.”

“Cas, if you keep eating like Dean, your arteries are going to explode.”

Dean spread his hands in a sincere plea for the virtues of junk food. “Aw, c'mon, Sammy! They keep him on a diet of organic rabbit food at his home. He needs real food.”

“French fries dipped in...” said Sam, picking up one of the ranch dressing packets that had scattered over the picnic table. “There's like 100 ingredients in this stuff!”

“See? Full of nutrition,” said Dean, slapping Cas on the back. 

“So, Crowley will be here tonight?” asked Cas as Sam rolled his eyes and tossed the packet aside. 

“And his team of mutant horrors,” sighed Sam. “Boy, I wish we could send some of those documents from Crowley's office to the Kansas State admissions office. I don't think there's a single member of that team who's passing their classes.”

“It's like Bobby said,” Dean told him. “They already know. And they don't care. They just want a winning team. So, we concentrate on the stuff that's personally embarrassing for Crowley.”

“Personally embarrassing? With that portrait in his office?” Dean had snapped a couple of photos of the image in question before he and Cas had left. Sam had been impressed enough to now utilize the portrait as the background on his computer desktop. 

“Like Bobby also said, what's significant is what we didn't find. Like, how did he go from being Coach Lilith's gofer to head coach of a major Big 12 team?”

“And where did he hide Coach Lilith's body?” grumbled Sam.

“You think there was foul play involved, Dean?” asked Cas.

“Wait 'til you see him tonight, Cas. That guy wouldn't know a sword if you ran him through with one.”

Sam nodded his head. “It's like Jess says, he just stands on the sideline and snarks. Alastair is the one doing the coaching.”

“I will fight Alastair, Dean,” stated Cas. 

“Watch out for that guy, Cas,” said Sam, tapping his forehead. “He gets into your head.”

“He will not get into mine,” said Cas.

Dean shot a worried glance at his brother. “No, Sammy's right. Don't underestimate him.”

“So,” said Cas, grabbing the last French fry, “will Meg be able to play?”

Sam smiled. “The anonymous notes suddenly and mysteriously ceased after we started sending our own unsigned notes to Crowley.”

“Yeah, ain't that a kick in the head,” said Dean. It had been fun choosing among the treasure trove for tidbits with which to annoy the opposing coach. The set of photos of Crowley and Lilith partying in a place that was evidently Las Vegas was especially amusing, especially the series of Crowley dressed up in a costume that may have been titled, “The NIght Hitler Forgot His Pants.”

“Just keep it together tonight, okay Cas? If we make it to the post-season, we'll be seeing them again for sure. So use this time to figure them out.”

“I will use this time to beat the pants off them,” said Cas.

“In Crowley's case, that might not be so hard,” laughed Sam.

 

The stands were as bustling as Cas had ever seen it. As he had told Dean, he rarely attended to the crowds at his own street fighting matches. There was simply too much going on during the fight to pay much attention, and the fighters were usually whisked off as soon as the bout had ended. The leader of the dojo was the one who took center stage if prizes were awarded. Cas had never put much thought into this: he didn't fight for a prize, he fought to maintain the honor and beauty of the sport. 

But he had begun to notice the crowds now. There were the regulars, friends like Sam and Jess, and Chuck and Becky, although she had, oddly enough, begun avoiding him since he had gotten his hair cut. It puzzled Cas. He had thought she was unhappy with him due to his appearance. It seemed instead there was something more fundamentally wrong.

The crowd had let out a yell when they had assembled court-side. He wondered if the team might become too distracted by the attention: Gordon, for one, was making a big point at waving towards some attractive girls sitting down near the front, much to Jo's apparent displeasure. Cas made a mental note to bring this up with Dean and the coach. Coach Henricksen paced by, smelling of his favorite brand of cigarettes. Cas had gleaned that he was often more pent up than his athletes during the early stages of the match. Castiel had once suggested he might try some yoga positions which were known to be calming, but this had been dismissed quite out of hand, Castiel thought. On Dean's advice, he had let the matter drop.

He cast a practiced eye over to the opposing bench. Based on the portraiture in his office, Crowley was many inches shorter and around the same number of inches portlier than he had been led to expect. As Dean and other team members often repeated, he did not appear to care for the actual practice of coaching, but instead sat on the sidelines, often tippling a silver flask, and bellowing instructions. 

Ruby, the one who had caused Pamela's eye injury, was the next member of the team to attract his attention. She was an comely woman, small, slim and dark-haired. As an experienced fighter, there was something about her body language that set off Cas's alarms. Although he would not fight her, she made him wary. Oddly enough, she didn't seem to be paying much attention to the Jayhawks bench, but rather directed her attention up into the crowd. Curious, Cas turned to look, surprised at what he saw.

Dean sat down beside Cas and followed his glance, to where Sam was evidently trying to conceal his six-foot-plus frame into the seat. Dean checked out the K-state bench and then sighed. “Yeah, he gets like that around Ruby.”

“They know each other? Outside?”

“Long story. He and Jess have been together since high school, but they were taking a break. Mostly because my brother is an idiot. And, yeah, before Ruby clobbered Pam, they had kind of a … thing?”

“A thing?” said Cas. His eyes widened. “Oh, like Gordon and Jo?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately. My idiot little brother really needs to stick to one girl.”

“And you?” asked Cas, who immediately regretted saying it.

Dean smiled. “You know me. I'm trying to keep it down to a few. Dozen.”

Cas cringed and looked back at the Wildcat bench. “And that one is Alastair.” As if he had heard his name, a tall, craggy-faced boy suddenly looked over towards them, his look like that of a panther sizing up a potential dinner. Cas could feel Dean stiffen as Alastair flashed a smile. 

Meg had drawn the first duel, against Ruby. They were quite evenly matched, and also quite obviously despised one another. Meg won on points, and then leaned over to whisper something in Ruby's ear that got the other girl fuming.

“You girls wanna mud wrestle after this is over?” cracked Dean.

A furious Gordon ended up getting beaten by a steely-eyed boy named Samhain and the score was tied.

Cas, stretching, wandered over to where Alastair was getting set up on the piste. “Oh, new haircut. How nice. A dishonored street fighter.”

“Thank you,” replied Cas.

Alastair motioned for Castiel to lean closer, and so he did. “And what else did they cut off, pretty boy, to make you play for this sad little team.” 

Cas remained close, staring at Alastair for a long moment. “As the performance enhancing drugs you are currently taking have a very well known side effect, I don't believe you will want to compare genital size. Now, can we fight?”

Alastair scowled, but then quickly recovered. “You might be fun to play with, little man.”

Cas stepped back to his starting mark. “I do not consider this to be play.”

They glared at one another, and then the official counted them off.

Alastair lunged. Cas feinted a parry, but then at the last moment, did a quick side-step, clinging to the edge of the mat, leaving Alastair swinging at air. Cas lined up and deftly touched Alastair on the back of the neck with his sword.

“KO, Jayhawks,” said the official.

Alastair cried out, turned and checked Cas – hard – in the mid-chest. Cas crumpled to the mat, while the ref, who had been watching, yelled, “Penalty, K-State.” Dean and Coach Henricksen flew to Cas's side. Meanwhile, Crowley rushed off the bench, as did half his team, to protest, as the penalty for late hits was getting removed from the game. Unfortunately for the Wildcats, the hit had been too blatant to possibly argue, so a fuming Alastair was ushered off where, with a last glower at Cas, he disappeared into his locker room.

Cas, watching Alastair from the mat, now took Dean's hand and hopped up, apparently unhurt. “Are you hurt?” asked Dean, who was now rubbing Cas's ribs.

“Not particularly,” whispered Cas.

“And the Oscar goes to...” grinned the coach. “Head back towards the bench and at least pretend to have a bruise, okay?”

Cas nodded and slung an arm over Dean's shoulders and proceeded slowly back towards their bench. “You scared the shit outta me,” Dean told him.

“I told you, Dean, this game is mental,” said Cas, pointing to his own head.

Alastair's unexpected retirement was a blow to the Wildcats: he was not only their strongest player, but the team captain and their coach in all but name. Crowley bellowed abuse from the sideline, but ultimately, as the stands erupted, the Jayhawks pulled out a very big upset victory. The team marched back to their locker room to the sound of stamping and cheering, stamp stamp stamp-stamp stamp.....  
Cas opened his locker and turned to watch Dean, on the other side of the room, greet Sam and Jess. “Good game, brother!” enthused Benny, pounding Cas on the shoulder. “Alastair is probably back there pooping his pants about now.”

“Thank you, Benny,” said Cas. “You are consistently our most reliable player.”

Benny chuckled. “I'll take that as praise.”

“It was meant as praise,” said Cas, who was slightly baffled. He glanced back over at Dean, who was now being tackled and kissed by a redheaded girl. 

“Well, looks like Dean's got a fan,” laughed Benny.

“Uh, I think I left my water bottle out there under the seat.” Cas turned and awkwardly made his way out of the locker rooms and back onto the court.

They had already turned off the main lights, so the court was darkened. It was fine, it fit Cas's mood. He dug around under his seat and, finding his bottle, sat down heavily in a chair and remained there, silent, for a moment. 

“So tell me,” came a voice. “What does Zachariah think of your brand new hobby?”

“Coach Crowley,” stated Cas, not bothering to rise. He took a swig from his water bottle, and replaced the cap. He looked up to see a silver flask extended in his direction. He waved it away. 

“No drink for the victor?” said Crowley. Cas frowned, but, after a few seconds consideration, shrugged and took the flask, drinking what he thought was an acceptable sip, and then trying very hard not to choke. 

“Don't spit it out. Craig is the good stuff,” smiled Crowley, retrieving the flask. He invited himself to sit down next to Cas. Castiel noticed that he seemed very different from the bellowing clown who haunted the sidelines during the game. This Crowley appeared much more calculating. 

“May I ask what you want, Mr. Crowley?”

“Why should I want anything, dear boy?” asked Crowley, taking a sip and slapping Cas on the knee. “Just a little conversation. Want to look out for the Jayhawks's new star player. And of course pondering why the Avenging Angel himself chose to play for … well, quite frankly, a losing team.”

“We seem to have won tonight.”

“A team of losers is ever a team of losers, darling.” Crowley passed the flask back, and Cas noticed it had strange symbols carved in the side. It was a number of hexagonal shapes, like he remembered from Crowley's office.

Cas took another sip from the flask. This one went down somewhat more easily. “We'll see what you have to say when we make the post-game.”

“Are you completely certain you will make the post-game?”

“We have a three-oh record so far, so, yes, I am certain.”

Crowley tutted, pulling back the flask. “No, dear, not the Chickenhawks. Haven't you learned to think selfishly? Even a little? I'm talking about _you_. How much longer do you think your coach – your real coach – is going to put up with you intimidating college students when you should be doping! Oh, I'm sorry, I meant _practicing_.”

“Zachariah is … aware. How is it you know him?”

“You might say we travel in the same circles. You might say I would be a good ally. If this is what you want to do, go straight, win a few duels. Make your mark here in the world.” Crowley’s fingers strayed to his lapel pin. Cas squinted at it in the darkness. It was the same design as his flask.

“Ally? How would you be my ally?”

“Well, right now, as things stand, I would obviously be your foe, wouldn't I? Playing for my cross-town rival. As Meg Masters chose to do. Transferred right under my nose.” Crowley’s mien suddenly shifted from affable to somewhat darker. But then the shadow fled. “Well, more power to her, I say. She obviously found the right environment.”

“You supported Meg's move?”

“Well of course. Don't you think students should be free to join any team they fancy. Say, you were worried about Zachariah's reaction, who do you think could protect you? I have a great deal of admiration for Coach Henricksen of course. But you know, he's strictly by the book. I've heard he banished some players just because he suspected them of using performance enhancements. Suspected! No evidence, no lawyer, no trial, just booted them right off, ruined their reputations and careers. Now, I know you're teacher's pet at the moment, but imagine, what if you were ever to run afoul of the coach and his narrow idea of right and wrong?”

Cas's head was starting to swim, and he suspected it wasn't the whiskey. “Crowley. What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I can do so little for you now, playing halfway across the state like that. When I could do so much for your career. So much.”

“Crowley-”

“Hey! Cas!” 

Castiel jumped at the sound of Dean's voice. Dean spotted Crowley and came tearing across the court towards them. Crowley smirked but didn't budge. Dean glared at him.

“Just having a drink and a little tête-à-tête,” said Crowley, slowly rising to his feet. “No reason to get so ... possessive.” He nodded to Cas. “Hope to speak to you again. And think about what I said.” He winked and then sauntered off.

“What the hell did he have to talk about?” asked Dean.

“Nothing of import,” sighed Cas.

“Hey, we missed you. We're all going to celebrate. You wanna ride?”

“Um.” Cas looked around, but they were now alone on the court. “What about the girl?”

“Girl? What girl? Oh, you mean Rhonda? Uh, yeah. We dated. Briefly. She's got some … interesting ideas. I was gonna take the side exit.” He hiked a thumb towards the side door.

“Well, I'm not sure I'm in the mood-”

“Cas!” said Dean, now wrapping his left arm snugly around Cas's shoulders. “Come on, man. We can't celebrate without you. I can't celebrate without you.”

“No?”

“No. So let's get going before the drink all the beer.” As they began to walk towards the door, Dean's other hand found Cas's side, rubbing up and down. “Hey, are you sure you're okay? Alastair didn't crack any ribs, did he?”

“Alastair hit me on the other side Dean.”

“Oh. Uh, I knew that,” said Dean, rapidly withdrawing his hand. 

 

Cas wasn't exactly certain what had happened to Rhonda, but she never made it to the Roadhouse that night.

And as for Dean, he had barely left Cas's side for the entire evening. It was a little bit intoxicating, definitely worse than the beer or whatever infernal liquid Crowley kept in his flask. Cas found his dark mood faded rapidly in Dean's sunny presence. He sat close, drinking in the broad smile. 

After being challenged to a game he found with some bemusement that he was completely inept at darts, perhaps partially because he greatly disliked the Coach Henricksen dartboard. (The coach, for his part, seemed to adore the thing.) 

He literally growled after yet another throw barely made the edge of the board, feeling confounded. And it didn't help that Dean was sitting, sipping a beer and hooting at him.

“Lucky that dart didn't end up in Oklahoma,” laughed Benny. “You'd hit Ash's mama right on the head.”

Ash laughed. “Oh, _your_ mama said hi, Benny, from when I saw her last night.”

“Come on, Cas, let me show you,” said Dean. He got up and crossed over the room, and then Cas felt a hand around his waist as Dean pressed up in back of him. “Okay, first thing? Dude, you're too tense!” Cas desperately tried to remember how to breathe as Dean slipped his right hand up over Cas's. “I swear, you’ll snap like a rubber band. Relax the wrist.”

“Think you need to stand closer there, Dean. There's still a good quarter inch between you two,” hooted Benny.

“Shaddap,” snapped Dean, who only held Cas closer. “Now, here we go. On three.” He clasped his hand over Cas's smaller hand. “One, two, three!” To Cas's utter astonishment, the dart did not end up anywhere near Kansas's bordering state, but rather sailed straight and true, and into the very center section of Henricksen's frowning mug.

“There you go!” said Dean, slapping Cas on the back. “Next you'll beat Sammy.”

“NOBODY beats Sammy!” declared Sam, who showed evidence of having downed many beers this night. The Winchester brothers began to bicker, which, to Cas's relief, meant he could somehow stumble silently back to their empty booth and gulp down a great gulp of his beer. 

“You were talking to the coach.” Meg had wriggled into the booth opposite of him. Cas didn't need to ask who she was talking about. “What did he want?” Her eyes glinted, dark and suspicious.

“He wanted me to carefully consider options for my future,” sighed Cas, his mood suddenly darkening again. 

Meg pulled a knee to her chest and sat back. “Look, take it from me, pretty boy, if Crowley says something, anything, believe the opposite.”

“You're concerned for my career as well, Meg?” asked Cas, smiling faintly.

“Look, I know no one here likes me. I get it.”

“I don't dislike you.” Meg looked genuinely surprised. “You obviously carry an enormous chip on your shoulder. But perhaps if you want the team to like you, you could, well, allow them to befriend you?”

Meg snorted. “What? I don't care if anybody likes me.”

“Yet you mention this situation. Constantly.” Meg narrowed her eyes, looking chided.

“Meg. What a nice surprise,” said Dean sarcastically, sliding into the booth next to Cas and slinging his arm around his friend. Cas found he wanted nothing more than to relax into Dean's arms. But he didn't want to do so in front of Meg. 

“Meg doesn't think you like her, Dean.”

“That's not true!” said Dean. “I mean, I don't dislike you.”

Meg rolled he eyes at the faint praise. “Anyway,” she said, gazing down at the table. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“Thanks for kicking the shit out of Ruby,” said Dean. He nodded over to where Pamela was sitting chatting with Jess and Sam. “I've heard Pamela wants back on the team. You know, instead of Charlie.”

“Won't Charlie be pissed off?” asked Meg.

“I think she'll be nothing but grateful to have more time to write erotic fan fiction. But Pamela needs practice time. Probably with someone a little more, let's say, steady than Jo.”

Meg studied Dean carefully. “I'll talk to her,” she finally said. “Thanks. Dean.” And then she slid out of the booth and wandered over towards Pamela.

“I think that is the first time in my life she's called me Dean and not Sword Boy or Man Slut or something,” mused Dean. He looked at Cas. “You doin' all right?”

“Today has been filled with ups and downs. I think I might call it a night?”

“Hey, yeah, sure Cas. We'll get you to your car, okay?” Even though Dean was clearly the worse for wear of the two, he insisted on escorting Castiel to the parking lot where the inevitable black town car awaited him.

“I sometimes wish I didn't need to go back there every night.” Cas hadn't meant to say it, it just somehow slipped out. 

“You should come stay at Uncle Bobby's some evening!” said Dean. “Sam can have Jess over. We're pretty boring, but we could eat pizza and play cards or something.”

Cas thought he would never stop smiling. “That sounds … nice,” he put in lamely. They stood together silently, face to face, in the parking lot for a moment.

“So, see you tomorrow?” Dean finally asked. It was cold enough you could see his breath ghosting in the darkness.

“Yes, I'll see you tomorrow!” Cas finally managed to tear himself away, throwing open the car door and getting in. He waved as it pulled off, even though the windows were tinted, and Dean couldn't possibly see.

And Dean stood alone in the cold parking lot, watching him go, for as long as Cas looked back.

 

Castiel emerged from the town car, still feeling slightly giddy, and walked towards the back entrance of his dojo. His mood deflated before he even reached the door. It was the only home he had ever really known, but it had begun to seem less and less like home these past few months. It certainly didn't feel much like his family now with Gabriel off somewhere else. He had friends growing up, of course, guys like Samandriel and Inias, but they had ended up in different weight classes, or sorted into fighting on different circuits. 

Less elite circuits, if he wanted to be honest. His talent and dedication to the art had ended up leaving him in isolation. 

In the beginning, attending college, his attempt to reach out to the world, had seems a terrible mistake, only emphasizing that he was even more of an outcast in the outside world than inside his dojo. Until Dean found him. Dean and the fencing team. Now sometimes students outside the team would come and talk to him, even despite knowing about his past. 

Not his past, Cas reminded himself. His current life. Although it kept seeming more and more distant. 

He was not at all pleased to run into Zachariah in the hallway on the way to his dorm. He was surrounded by two of the bigger guys, Uriel and Virgil, one of the biggest, stupidest guys. “Well well well, such a fancy haircut. Isn't that fancy, Uriel?”

“It's quite fancy,” Uriel chuckled.

Castiel kept very quiet. It was the only way to deal with these guys, especially when Gabriel wasn't around to extricate him.

“You don't seem pleased to see us, Cassie. Does he, Uriel?”

“Not pleased at all,” said Uriel. Castiel felt a shiver go down his spine. What was going on?

Cas kept his voice low. “I need to get to my dorm, Zachariah. I need to study.”

“Oh, no you don't,” mocked Uriel.

Cas glowered at Uriel. “I need to study. I have an exam.” Uriel smirked.

Zachariah tutted. “It's come to our attention, Castiel, that attending college at this point is taking too much out of you. I mean, look how stressed and strained you are.”

Cas bit his lip. _Oh no._

“Well, we're putting an end to it,” Zachariah continued. “So you can concentrate on preparing for your next match.”

“I don't have another match scheduled,” Cas said evenly.

“Oh, yes, that. Well, we'll get to that after we make some tweaks in your training regimen. Uriel tells me you haven't been holding up your end.”

Castiel glared at Uriel. “I haven't been keeping up? Uriel-” But then he forced himself to stop, choking off his words. 

Zachariah indulgently held out his hands. “Now, now, no need to worry! We'll get you fixed up. Our team doctor has some special vitamins for you to start taking. And then we can get to some more intense training.”

Cas forced his words to come out calmly. “I will not juice, Zachariah. I have already made that abundantly clear.” Uriel chuckled, and Virgil, who didn't even pretend to be amused, crowded closer.

“Did we ask?” said Uriel. “Little punk.”

“I need to get back to my dorm,” said Castiel.

Zachariah clucked his tongue. “Oh, you're not staying in the main dormitory any more. You're much too important! You'll have your own room now, just part of our star treatment for you, Castiel.”

“I would prefer to stay in the dorm.”

“Just take a look. You'll thank me!” gushed Zachariah, giving a signal to the other guys. 

Cas went for his sword.

So did they.

He stood for a time, the only sound he could hear was his own breathing, the sound of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. He wouldn't make it out. He would take out one or two, the aisle was narrow enough he could hitch some wall. But they would just call some more guys, and someone would get him. 

And worse, they could permanently take him down, the way they did Gabriel.

He thought of Dean's words. _We don't want that to happen to you._

He lowered his sword. Zachariah smiled, the cat playing with the mouse, and then Uriel and Virgil grabbed him roughly by the arms and led him off. He was escorted to a tiny, dark room containing a small bunk and pretty much nothing else. They disarmed him, and Virgil turned out Cas’s pockets and grabbed his cell phone. Uriel chuckled one last time. “Enjoy the VIP suite, Cassie!” And with that they slammed the door. Cas checked the knob: it was locked. 

He sat down, hard, on the narrow bed. Patience – that's what he needed. That's what Joshua would have said. But he needed to fix this. He needed to do something before they started drugging him.

He looked up towards the one, barred window. He climbed up on the bunk to take a closer look. The bars had a quick release device in case of fire. But it it was currently padlocked. 

Cas gripped the lock in his hands, running a thumb over the smooth surface. A very small smiled traced his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Bobby gets a guest under his roof, and the team practices some new drills.

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 7 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta.   
**Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter, Bobby gets a guest under his roof, and the team practices.

 

“Where could he be? This is not like him!”

“I'm sure he's fine.”

“He's not answering his cell!”

“Dean. The guy has a life, you know.”

Dean stood in the middle of the gym floor, looking wretched. “He wasn't at practice. Why would he miss practice? He never misses practice!” Dean searched his younger brother's face.

Sam smiled with genuine affection. “Maybe he had to, you know, do school work?” 

“School work. Yeah. What's that.”

Sam chuckled. “Aw, c'mon, it's been less than 24 hours, I guarantee he hasn't forgotten all about you in the meantime. Now, can we take off?”

Dean attempted to shrug it off. He was probably being a girl, but he just had a nagging bad feeling about all this. “I just need to grab some shit out of my locker,” he told his brother.

“Hurry it up. I gotta get home. I still gotta study for an exam tomorrow.”

“You _study_ for exams? Wimp!” Dean turned and marched into the locker room. But he pulled up short. 

“Cas!”

“Um. Hello, Dean,” said Castiel. He was sitting on the floor next to his locker, arms hugging his knees, his bag beside him.

Dean squatted down beside him. “Okay, what's going on, buddy? We didn't see you at practice today, and you weren't answering your phone. We were worried.”

“I didn't know where else to go.” Cas's voice was very soft. He wiped his eye on a sleeve.

“What do you mean?” Dean shifted to sit down. Cas was breathing hard, which was weird for him. Usually nothing much flustered him but Jo. When Cas took a while to answer, Dean started to speculate that it was something to do with the Gordon and Jo situation.

“Zachariah. Our … boss. He told me he was going to pull me out of school. And force me to start juicing. They locked me inside the dojo. Like a prisoner, Dean! And took away my phone. So- So I picked the lock, like you taught me. And crawled out the window.”

“You broke out?” said Dean. Cas nodded. “Cool!”

That got a faint smile. “And then I made my way here to campus.”

“You walked all this way?”

Cas nodded. “But I don't know where to go. I don't want them to find me. I don't want to go back, Dean. And I don't know what to do....”

Sam burst into the locker room. “Dean, what the hell is taking- Oh, hey Cas.” He cast a confused glance at Dean. “Where were you today?”

“He's on the lam from his dojo,” said Dean. Cas nodded sadly. “He ran away!”

“That's … pretty serious, actually,” said Sam. 

“Sam, they wanted him to drop out. And they were gonna start drugging him.”

Sam scanned his mind for what he knew about the legal status of street fighters. Unfortunately, it was a whole lot of grey on grey. “We're a free state. But he's.... Won’t they come after him? I mean, like you would with an escaped servant?”

Both Dean and Cas nodded sadly. “Look, I don't know what we're gonna do, but you can't stay here tonight. Come on. You're coming with us.” He stood, holding out a hand.

Cas’s face seemed to be all dark eyes. “To … your home?”

“Yeah. You probably should hang with us until we figure out what to do.”

They headed straight back to Bobby's place in near silence. It was dark, so there wasn’t even much to look at along the roadway. At one point, Dean had told Sam, “So now we’re harboring a fugitive, huh? Pretty cool.” But Sam either didn’t think that was the case, or didn’t believe it to be cool, and so didn’t deign to answer. 

The car stopped outside a property bounded by a high, razor wire-topped fence. Sam hopped out to unlock the gate and push it open, and then they entered into a strange world filled with stacks of dead vehicles lying one atop the other. Sam and Dean brought him inside the mud room, where they stripped out of heavy boots and also stowed their side arms. Cas’s fingers trailed over an especially long blade mounted neatly on the wall.

“Oh, that was my high school sword,” said Sam apologetically. “I dunno why Bobby doesn’t take it down and store it.”

“This is your home,” said Cas, peering at the weapon. “You need a sword in the entryway.”

Sam demurred. “Bobby’s just … sentimental.”

Dean laughed. “Are you kidding? Bobby is the least sentimental old bastard in the world!”

Sam flashed Dean a look of great vengeance, and then pressed a finger to his lips as he opened the door into the main house. 

“Probably best not to wake up Bobby ‘til tomorrow,” Dean whispered. “You can crash on my floor tonight.” Cas nodded, although it as difficult to pay attention as he had never seen the like of this room: there were just as many books stacked in here as there had been cars on the outside. Dean opened a linen closet, and began handing over blankets and pillows to Cas and Sam. And then with strict instructions to be as silent as possible, the three made their way upstairs and past a closed door that Cas assumed was Bobby’s bedroom. 

They made their way to Dean’s room, where Sam laughed, “I hope Cas likes your décor.”

Dean looked baffled, but then his expression changed to something Cas couldn’t read. He rushed inside, dumping the linens all on his bed, and tore something down from the wall over his bed, which he somewhat clumsily placed on the nightstand. Cas, who was behind the man-mountain that was Sam, couldn’t see what it was. He smiled slightly, figuring it was probably some kind of pornography: he was certain he’d seem much worse up on the walls of his dormitory. Dean should see the kinds of things Gabriel was capable of!

“Uh, thanks, Sammy. We’ll take it from here.”

Sam grinned and departed, muttering, “G’night.” Dean fussed about making Cas a nest of pillows and blankets on the floor. After a number of assurances from Cas that it was actually more comfortable than his own bed (which was true), Dean finally relented. Cas wearily slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and started to doze almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 

“What the hell. I get up there's a new set of dueling boots and a sword I don't recognize in my mud room. May I inquire what the actual fuck is goin' on around here?”

Cas, who had been sitting at the cluttered kitchen table sipping coffee along with Sam and Dean that morning, literally jumped when Bobby burst into the house. Bobby, Dean had explained, was an early riser.

“We can explain-” started Sam.

“We have to help him!” said Dean.

“You two idjits shut up and let the boy speak for himself.” Bobby crossed his arms and made a show of looking Cas up and down. “You! I got a duelist staying in my home?”

Cas regarded Bobby nervously. “Yes sir.”

“Oh, polite at least. I like that. You boys might learn some manners!” Bobby added, whacking Dean on the back of the head. “So you're the notorious Cas I take it.”

“Castiel.”

“Yeah, I ain't got time for all that. You're Cas. I'm Bobby Singer, the proprietor of this establishment.”

“Yessir.”

“And you’re a genuine duelist, kid?”

“We had him leave his sword outside, Bobby,” Dean explained.

“Hold on, boy. You take a duelist into your home, there are certain rules, of which you idjits are obviously ignorant.”

“Oh!” said Cas. He ran out to the mud room and ran back, holding his sword. He started to go down on one knee. 

Bobby grinned. “Don't bother with that, kid. You ain't asking for my hand in marriage.” Cas stood up. He offered the sword to Bobby, hilt-first. Bobby pulled the sword from the scabbard. “Nice!” He looked it over and then carefully replaced it. “All right, you get that back outside before I cut my damn fingers off.”

Cas nodded and hurried back to the mud room.

“Okay, we got that taken care of,” said Bobby, as Dean dimly remembered some kind of code of honor that was invoked when you had a fighter under your roof. He seemed to recall a high school fencing coach scratching them out on a chalkboard years ago. “You two wanna tell me what the blazes is going on?”

“Cas got kicked out,” said Dean. 

“He got locked in,” corrected Sam.

“Well, more or less,” said Dean as Cas came skidding back into the room in his stocking feet. “He needs somewhere to stay while we figure things out.”

Bobby smiled. “Is that so? A homeless street fighter. So, what can you do for me, Cas?”

Castiel frowned, uncertain.

“Well, can you fix a car? In case you ain't noticed, I run a business. And it ain't feeding hungry idjits.” Castiel nervously shook his head. “All right, can you wash clothes? Clean the floor? Cook a meal?”

“I can cook!”

“All right then, go make me breakfast. And make it snappy.” Bobby removed his cap and sat down at the table, while Cas fled into the kitchen. 

Dean leapt up to follow. “I'll show you where stuff is!” he shouted after Cas.

“Dean, you don't have any fucking clue where anything is in my kitchen!” Bobby bellowed. He turned around to face Sam. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Make yourself useful!” Sam too scampered off, and Bobby, grinning like a fool opened his newspaper. “And somebody get me some fresh fucking coffee!” he shouted, holding up his mug.

Some minutes, some clattering and shouting and some really terrific smells later, Sam and Dean set the table with a bunch of mismatched dishes, and then bustled in with a platter of enough bacon to feed a small army and a basket of fresh biscuits. 

Cas emerged with a frying pan. “Do you take your eggs over easy, over medium, or over hard, Mr. Singer?” he asked, pointing to an array in the pan.

“Bobby is fine. Scrambled, usually, but I'll take the middle one.” Castiel dumped the indicated eggs onto Bobby's plate and began to leave. “And did you whip up these biscuits?”

“Yes sir.”

“You bake? Dammit, Dean,” he told Dean, who had just come out with a stack of pancakes. “You need to marry this kid.” Dean blanched and put down the pancakes. “Well, where the hell is the maple syrup? Get on the stick!”

After some more time, the four men were finally all arrayed around the table along with enough breakfast fare to feed ten times their number. “In the future,” said Bobby, stifling a burp, “you probably don't gotta make waffles and pancakes and biscuits and toast all at the same time.”

“Yessir,” muttered Cas, who had barely touched the measly portion of food on his own plate.

“And eat your damn eggs! Don't want you disappearing down to nothing on my watch.”

Dean leaned forward, his voice holding much urgency. “Uncle Bobby, Cas ran away from his dojo.”

“Is that true? Are you AWOL kid?”

“Am I a wall?” asked Cas, nibbling uncertainly on his eggs. 

“We figured, with what you do, maybe you'd be able to help,” said Dean.

Bobby laughed. “Dean, you idjit. After all this time, you got no fucking idea what I do?”

“Dean told me you were connected with the underground railroad movement,” Cas told him with utmost seriousness.

“Well, good on Dean for sharing our secret mission with the world,” sighed Bobby. “What I do is help people who wanna get lost disappear. Dean, you dumb shit, you just got one of the most famous street fighters running, and you went and made him more famous!”

Dean, who was rarely at a loss for words, stared at his uncle. “We did?” he asked, voice cracking slightly.

“I'm … famous?” asked Cas, who appeared sweetly baffled at it all.

“The Avenging Angel?” scoffed Bobby. “I had to restrain Rufus from coming to one of your games and kidnapping your skinny ass for his collection!” Castiel looked aghast, so Bobby waved his hand. “I'm joking kid. But you owe the dumb bastard an autograph.”

“So we can't help him?” Dean asked.

Bobby sighed and pushed himself back from the table, patting his stomach. “Well, see here, Cas. I think what's happening is that up until now, your bosses let you play at going to college, probably because they thought you'd get sick of it on your own and quit. I'll be they didn't reckon on you signing up for a third-rate college fencing team.”

Dean looked offended. “We're not third rate!”

“When's the last time your crowd had a winning season? Even before you came on board, Dean, that team's been sort of a local shame. Henricksen at least got you all straightened up, but I'm pretty damn sure you'd still be in the toilet without Cas.”

“Wait just a minute,” said Sam. “Uncle Bobby. What the hell, man. You haven't been to a single game. I thought you hated fencing?”

Bobby grunted out a sigh and stuck an old silver spoon in his coffee to stir it up. “Ain't no American who hates dueling. It's in our blood. I just can't stand to see my boys fighting.” He turned to Cas. “I managed to talk some sense into Sam, but Dean is too fucking stubborn. And you! You're a lunatic. Of course, those folks raised you to be a lunatic, so it ain't your fault.”

“I'm not a lunatic,” Cas protested, surprised as hell to find himself contradicting an elder. “I mean, respectfully. Sir-”

“Why do you owe me any respect?” laughed Bobby. “I'm some grumpy old bastard who just got you hopping around my damn kitchen when you're barely awake. But listen to what I'm saying. How much money you got?”

“Why would I need money?”

“So, none? And how much you think your bosses made on that last fight? The one where that kid got it in the neck?”

Cas stared miserably at his eggs. “I don't know.”

Bobby was staring him down. “Don't know or don't care? So I take it you didn't get any of that money?”

“I wouldn't _want_ any of that money.”

“So. You're a slave.”

Cas was up on his feet, glaring at Bobby with great vengeance. “I am _not_ a slave.” He looked around. “And- And I'm not going to stand around and be insulted!”

“Wait, Cas!” shouted Sam, who leapt up too. Cas pushed past him and marched towards the door.

“Cas!” barked Dean, who didn't move from his chair.

Castiel stopped and, reluctantly, turned to face Dean.

“Cas. Where the hell else you think you're gonna go? I mean, come on!”

Cas stared stubbornly at the floor.

“Anyway, there's no humiliation in being a slave, kid,” said Bobby. “The folks who should hang their heads are the owners. Now, I want you to come back to the table, finish your damn breakfast, and we'll figure out what to do with you. But let's get one thing straight: I'm not gonna lie to you or go tippy-toeing around your honor code. I tend to think you've had enough lying so far to last you your whole life.”

Cas's shoulders slumped, and he shambled back to the kitchen table, where he made a show of pushing his eggs around with his fork. Dean leaned over and grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb up and down. Cas relaxed a fraction, giving Dean a grateful smile.

“So what do we do now, Bobby?” asked Sam.

“Well, first I think we clean up the wreckage in the kitchen. Then you kids get to school, like usual. As for me, I think it might be worthwhile to get ahold of that asshole, Rufus, and get his take. He keeps a tab on the street fighters, more so than I do.”

“I didn't think you gave a shit about fighting, Bobby,” said Dean.

“I give a shit about you two. And having you come home for the last few months blabbering Cas this, Cas that, Cas the other, I've had to start paying attention.”

“Did he really do that?” asked Cas, who suddenly brightened.

“Well...” said Dean, whose ears had gone pink.

Cas looked thoughtful. “There is one more thing. I didn't think to tell you, because of all that happened. The night after the game? When Crowley came to talk to me?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, who was already bristling. “What about it?”

“He didn't come out and say it directly, but he wanted to recruit me for his team.”

“I knew it! I'll kill that motherfucker!”

Cas held up a hand. “Dean, I didn't take it seriously. But there was something else. He seemed to know that Zachariah was unhappy with me, and he implied he could somehow protect me. If I joined his team.”

“Wait, what the fuck? And, how the hell would he know? What's the deal, Bobby?”

Bobby rubbed his beard. “I can't say. I don't know much about Crowley, other than him being a complete pain in the ass. There's always been talk about how he replaced Coach Lilith. That does add a fly in the ointment.” He sipped his coffee. “We'll ask Rufus. He pays a lot of attention to all this fighting crap.”

 

The drive in to school was strangely quiet, even with three of them in the car. Dean glanced at Cas in the rear view, moping in the back seat. “Hey, I had an idea,” he said.

“Dean, you're not supposed to have ideas,” chuckled Sam. “Remember?”

“I think we need to do something to break up the training regimen,” he told Cas. Cas didn't reply, but did lean forward, hooking an elbow over the front seat.

“Yeah, but, you guys are winning now,” Sam reminded him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure I'm sure. This is the time when you can get lazy. We need to bring in a change up. Keep them on their toes. We've got some strong opponents coming up, and they know they can't discount us now.”

“So what would you like to do, Dean?” asked Cas quietly.

“That's why I wanted to talk it over with you. I bet there's a lot of stuff you do in your street fighting training that would carry over. I mentioned this to Henricksen before, and he says there's even a cache of training equipment on campus we could raid.”

Cas sat back, with what Dean desperately hoped was a thoughtful look. Finally he leaned forward again and said, “I have an idea.”

“Oh, no, both of you stop!” shouted Sam. Dean laughed, and Cas just looked perplexed.

 

“We have a new training exercise today,” Coach Henricksen told his team later that day. “But I'm gonna let these two geniuses explain it to you,” he said, patting Cas and Dean on the shoulder.

Cas and Dean eyed each other. Dean pointed to the new equipment on the court. “For those of you who've never seen one before, this is a balance beam.”

“What are we now, a bunch of ballerinas?” asked Gordon, prompting Ash to do a little pirouette.

“You? Definitely not,” said Dean.

“Performing your routines on the beam enhances your sense of balance,” said Cas. “My sensei used it extensively.” He emphasized his point by hopping lightly on the springboard to the side and gracefully leaping up on the beam, and then swinging his sword around in a stylish fashion.

“Oo,” said Jo, much to Gordon's obvious displeasure.

“Aw, but come on, Cas,” pleaded Benny. “You're half alley cat!”

“Are we really doing this, Coach?” whined Gordon

“Yes, we're really doing this Walker. Now I've gotta do some paperwork.” He grinned and turned around, heading for his office.

“We know you’re going to smoke!” Gordon yelled after him. Henricksen made rude gesture.

“But this is nuts!” said Meg. “We'll break our freaking necks!”

“For once, I agree with Meg,” said Charlie. 

“We won't start on the beam,” said Cas. “We'll start here.” He pointed to a wide stripe that had been laid down on the mat. “If you master that, you can practice here,” he said, pointing to a beam that was resting right on the mat. “And only then you'll drill up here. Also, we'll start with wooden swords.”

“Kiddie swords?” shouted Benny. 

“Guys, come on,” said Dean. “We have some wins under our belt, and that’s good, but we're up against some strong teams coming up. I don't want you guys to get comfortable.”

“Dean, you can't get up there! Not if your name ain't Castiel!”

“Benny, give us a chance.

Ash sighed and sat down one the mat, pulling off his boots. “And what the burning heck you think you're doing, Mr. Mullet?” Benny asked Ash.

“Just watch, will you?” asked Ash told Benny. He walked over to the springboard and toed it, and then, to the team's general astonishment, hopped up onto the beam next to Cas. He weaved from side to side slightly, and Cas put out a steadying hand. “My Ma made me take gymnastics class when I was a kid. She thought it would help with the ADD.”

“Did it?” Jo asked.

“Naw. But I can do a dive roll!” 

“Dean?” said Cas, and Dean handed up one of the wooden swords. “Ash, I want you to go through the basic parries. Take your time, and be aware of your center of gravity. Go ahead, _prime, seconde, tierce, quarte…._ ” Uncertainly at first, Ash began to go through the forms. “Very good! Very good!” Cas turned back to the team. “Balance is a great equalizer. I have taken down many an opponent who was stronger and had better reach by knocking them off balance.”

“It ain't that hard, guys,” said Ash. 

“Yeah it is,” grumbled Benny.

“If you find it challenging,” said Cas, “that's good. I can give you some yoga poses that will also help your sense of balance.”

“YOGA?” howled Benny.

“Come on, Benny,” said Dean, grabbing his arm and leading him away. “Let's see if we can channel some of that energy for something useful.”

Despite Benny's whining he soon became intrigued by the new challenge of fighting in a very confined space. He was even more intrigued when Cas wandered over and pointed out how to exploit various weaknesses in Dean's sense of balance. “Thanks, Cas!” Dean grumbled when he ended up knocked on his ass by a now quite suddenly more cheerful Benny.

With the exception of Charlie, the girls seemed more adventurous about trying the beam than the men, and Dean noticed with great pleasure that Pamela had come down to practice on the court tonight, and even ventured to spar with Meg on the beam set down on the mat.

Jo had decided she was ready for the high beam, probably more out of rivalry with Ash than anything else. She had just taken yet another tumble when Cas hopped down to make certain she was all right.

“I almost got it!” Jo protested. 

“It might help to remove your boots, Jo,” Cas suggested.

“But you're wearing your boots!”

“Just at first,” Cas told her. “You're practicing with a wooden sword now, so you really don't need heavy boots.”

“So could you do flips like gymnasts do up there?” asked Charlie.

“Don't be weird, Charlie. He's just using it for fencing,” Pamela told her, as both she and Meg crowded around.

“I can do some gymnastics moves, yes,” Cas told Charlie. “Not as many as when I was younger and lighter.”

“Really?” chorused a now quite intrigued female audience. 

“Show us!” demanded Charlie.

“Yeah, show us something, hotshot,” said Meg.

Cas glanced over to where Dean was sparring with Benny. “How about this? I'll do a move if you'll promise go back to practicing. All of you,” he emphasized, glaring at Charlie.

“Sure, sure!” she said, giving him a push.

Cas hopped up on the beam. “I'm kinda rusty,” he warned them.

“You always claim you're rusty!” Jo told him.

Cas shrugged and stood for a moment at one end of the beam, in deep concentration. Then suddenly he took two great leaps, the last one slamming down hard, and went into a high flip, his body stretched out straight, and smacking down on two feet right just millimeters from the very edge of the beam. This sent Charlie hopping up and down like a red whirlwind, and even Meg cracked a smile.

Dean was staring slack-jawed at Cas horsing around on the beam. He let out a grunt as he was jabbed in the ribs. “Hey, you need to dance with the one what brought you,” Benny laughed as 

“Sorry,” Dean muttered. “Thought he was gonna crack his head open.”

“You should know better,” laughed Benny. “You two have been glued together for weeks now.”

“He's living with us now,” said Dean, who immediately regretted it.

“What?”

“Oh. Uh, it's not like that.” Dean nervously scratched the back of his neck. “The guys in his dojo? They were gonna pull him off the team. And out of school! So he kind of snuck out on them.”

“Wow. So. The street fighters all look down on us little folks? Seems strange, don't it?”

“I hadn't thought of it that way,” Dean confessed. And truly, he hadn't. “Anyway, I haven't told many people, so don't spread it around. I don't know how much Cas wants people to know.” But Dean realized this was a fool's errand the minute the words were out of his mouth. Benny would tell Ash, who would tell Jo, and then the world would know. Or Benny would tell Gordon who'd tell Jo, and the same damn thing. He supposed the only decent thing to do was tell Cas that the world now knew.

He glanced up at the clock. “All right. Good practice, everybody!” he said, clapping his hands. To his surprise, he received a smattering of applause. Were his teammates finally getting a dash of spirit?

“Let's do the chant!” gushed Charlie.

“Aw, no,” grumbled Dean. No, that was too much damn spirit.

“I'd do the chant!” said Jo, to more groaning from Benny. “Gordon will do the chant!”

“You betray us, Gordo,” Benny laughed.

“Guys, no chants,” said Dean.

“Aw, c'mon, Winchester,” said Pamela, gripping him by the shoulder and leading him to the center of the floor. “Let's do the fucking chant. Everybody!” The team, with a mixture of enthusiasm and dread, began to move into a rough circle.

“A chant?” Cas asked. 

Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him near. “All right all right. You wanna do the fucking chant? We do the fucking chant!” He looked around. Pamela grinned and Benny stuck out his tongue.

Dean started off, with most of the girls and a reluctant Gordon chanting along.

_”Rock...._

_Chalk...._

_Jayhawk...._

_K-UUUUUUUUUUU....”_

Dean and Cas both glanced up, the final “U,” as it always did, echoed through the gym like a lost note.

They began again, this time, all voices joining in, full-throated.

_”ROCK...._

_CHALK...._

_JAYHAWK...._

_K-UUUUUUUUUUU....”_

Cas blinked and smiled at Dean. Dean gripped his shoulder tighter.

“ _Rock chalk Jayhawk KU - rock chalk Jayhawk KU - rock chalk Jayhawk KU!!!_ ”

“Woo!” screamed Pamela. Everybody applauded.

“Well, that didn't suck,” Dean commented.

“You got the spirit, chief,” said Benny.

“You didn't even wanna do the cheer, Benjamin,” sassed Pamela.

“Come over here and say that!”

“I'll come right over there and say that.”

Dean shook his head, as both of them were grinning like fools. Hell, he was grinning like a fool. Even Cas was smiling, though he looked sweetly baffled.

“Winchester. Castiel.”

Dean and Cas turned to regard Coach Henricksen, who was apparently agitated enough that he hadn't bothered to extinguish his cigarette when he charged out of the office.

“What's up, Coach?” shouted Ash.

“Winchester. You gotta gather up your street fighter buddy and take him to the Admissions office.”

The gym, which had been filled with happy chatter, grew silent.

Dean shook his head. “What? Why?”

“It's a complete SNAFU. I got word he’s off the team. And out of school!”

“What?” asked Dean. There were also angry shouts of, “They can't do that!” and “What?” and “No not now!”

“Just get your asses over there,” ordered Henricksen.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled, as Cas, looking miserable, came to join him on his way out. Dean flipped open his phone. “I'm calling Sammy. Don't worry Cas. We'll work it out.”

Cas nodded, not looking certain at all.

“Hey, don't worry, buddy. We got you out of your dojo, right?”

Cas heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes, Dean. But those were just a bunch of street fighters. These are college administrators.” The shared a glance and then burst out of the doors of the gym.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we start with an info dump (sorry) but then we get to the good stuff later.

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 8 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta. This chapter has violence some may find upsetting.  
 **Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter, we start with an info dump (sorry) but then we get to the good stuff later.

 

Dean and Cas waited nervously in the vomit-tinged waiting room of a college administrator. “Do you think they are really going to kick me off the team, Dean?” Cas whispered nervously. 

“I dunno. I wonder if Zachariah found some way to screw with your enrollment.”

The receptionist bid them enter, and Dean and Cas settled themselves into the two guest chairs in an empty office. Dean glanced around nervously. It looked fairly anonymous, except for an odd sculpture pushed over into one corner. It appeared to be an old-fashioned two-handed broadsword that had been embedded in a stone. “Check it out,” he whispered to Cas, hoping to distract his friend.

“What is that?” asked Cas. “It’s a lovely weapon, but why is it stuck in a rock like that?”

“I think if you pull it out, you get to be king of England.”

Cas didn't get a chance to ask his inevitable next question, as the side door to the office opened and shut, and the boys found themselves face to face with a stern-faced woman. She went to stand behind her desk, but did not take her chair, instead looming over them. “Uh, what is this about, Miss … Visyak?” asked Dean, reading the nameplate on her desk.

“You are Castiel?” she asked him, peering over reading glasses on a silver chain around her neck.

“Um, no, this is Cas.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Mr. uh, Castiel. There is a problem with your admissions forms.”

Cas looked at her curiously. “I don't understand. I've been attending this school for over a year now.”

Miss Visyak pulled the top sheet off of the stack of forms in the middle of her desk and held it up. She tapped it with a pen. “We require a first and last name on all forms. You have not supplied one.”

“Cas doesn't have a last name,” Dean protested. “He’s a street fighter.”

Dean felt a pair of eyes boring through him. He shivered. “I'm sorry, am I having a conversation with you, or with Mr. Castiel?”

“Why is this coming up now?” Dean insisted. “Is this Zachariah’s doing?”

“I don’t know any Mr. Zachariah. This is in regards to Mr. Castiel.”

“Oh, goodie, just in time for a meetin'!” said Bobby cheerfully as he bustled into the office, a file folder in his hands. He glared at Dean, who gave up his chair. “I heard you wanted to chat with Cas?” he told Miss Visyak as he settled himself into Dean's vacated chair while Dean stood nervously nearby.

“They need a last name on my forms,” Cas told him softly.

“Well, I don't see how this was ever overlooked. I'm just as sorry as hell. Boy's last name is Singer, just like it says on his _birth certificate._ ”

Miss Visyak glared at Bobby, Dean grinned, and Cas just looked surprised.

“On his birth certificate?” asked Miss Visyak. 

“Sure,” said Bobby, leaning over and dumping the file folder on Miss Visyak's desk. “I just happen to have it right here. See, there's the certificate of live birth, his social security card, his driver’s license....” Bobby snatched up the latter and gave it to Cas. “You shouldn't keep forgetting this, boy. I swear, he'd forget his head.” Dean peered at the birth certificate, which listed Robert and Karen Singer as adoptive parents.

Miss Visyak favored the collection of documentation with a steely-eyed bureaucratic scowl.

“Oh, and there's various other official papers there, including a letter from my lawyer suggesting that you'd be asking for legal action if you were to be harassing this boy on account of his prior occupation.”

“Your lawyer is Mr. Rufus Turner?”

“That’s what it says on the form.”

Miss Visyak glowered. “Castiel Singer? Is this correct, young man?” she asked Cas.

Cas was beaming brightly. “Yes! This is my driver’s license! I'm Castiel Singer.” Dean pulled the license out of Cas's hand and set it up rightside-up. 

Miss Visyak afforded them a 300-watt glare. “I shall have my administrative assistant make copies,” she said.

A little later, as they were walking out of the office, Cas still cradling his driver’s license, Dean asked, “Did Sam call you, Bobby?”

“No, and you boys had better be grateful to that Becky girl. I guess her ma heard what was coming and told Becky, and she told Chuck and he called me.”

“And you got all this stuff made?”

“I had some help from Rufus and a friend of his who does ID work. You're lucky they're both street fighting fanatics. Did a nice job, if I do say so myself.”

“Does this mean I can drive now?” asked Cas, flashing the license.

Bobby grabbed it back from him. “Not hardly, kid. Dean will teach you later.”

“But not on Baby!” Dean protested.

“You can take one of the wrecks in the back. And show him a stick shift, so he ain't useless. Meantime, just stick close to him today? I don't want no more trouble. And we're set to head out to talk to Rufus tomorrow. I think he just wants Cas's autograph, personally.”

At this point, Sam came running up, out of breath. “Hey, I'm sorry I took so long. Is everything okay?”

“We managed,” said Dean. “Oh, and Cas is now a Singer.”

“Congratulations. And sorry I was delayed. Meg claimed there were some weird dudes hanging out after practice?”

“Weird dudes?” said Dean. “Ah. Meg just probably wants attention.”

“Well, she said they were lurking near the gym.”

“You boys be careful,” said Bobby. “And Cas? I expect a good dinner in return for these papers.”

“Sure,” said Castiel. “Do you like chili, Mr. Singer?”

“The hotter the better, kid. And don't drown it in beans: I like my meat.”

“We'll stop on the way home and buy peppers,” Cas told Bobby as he made his way off.

“Wait, we will?” asked Dean. “Aren’t peppers vegetables?”

“Careful, Cas,” warned Sam. “You might kill Dean, making him eat something that's not a burger.”

 

“I gotta pass on this little outing. I gotta get to campus for my midterm,” Sam informed everybody the next morning. 

“It'll be fine, we'll take my truck,” said Bobby.

“Just put some gas in Baby!” scolded Dean, tossing over the keys as Sam sailed towards the door.

Cas was intrigued as he, Dean and Bobby headed off to visit Rufus Turner: he had never before ridden in a real pickup truck. The window on the passenger side was broken and didn't crank up all the way, so he volunteered to sit on that side while Dean took the hump, and it was wonderful, sitting up high over the world, feeling the wind gusting on his face. 

“Tell your buddy not to hang out the window, he'll catch a fly in the face,” Bobby laughed.

“You should get a pickup truck, Dean,” said Cas, who was beaming. 

“Cas, this old truck is not better than my car.”

“Kid has good taste,” said Bobby. “You wanna learn to drive a truck, kid?”

“That would be excellent,” said Cas, his eyes shining.

“Well, I ain't got a taxi fleet, and you won't be much use living out there with no car. Dean will show you.”

“How did I get that job?” asked Dean, who didn’t actually seem to upset about it.

“You're the one who brought home the stray. Now quit your bitching,” Bobby told him.

Rufus lived in a rambling house, somewhat reminiscent of Bobby's, minus the surrounding scrap yard. And like the Singer residence it was located in an out of the way area. 

“Castiel?” said a tall, dark-skinned man who emerged from the house along with a shorter, rounder, bespectacled man. 

Castiel nodded, and, smiling warmly, the man rushed forward, extending a hand to shake. “I'm Rufus Turner. It's a real honor to meet you. A real honor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Turner.”

“Fanboy,” muttered Bobby.

Rufus grinned. “Seriously, Bobby, this is the best Hanukkah present you’ve never given me.”

“What happened to his hair?” asked the chubby guy.

“This is Frank Devereaux, an ID man from upstate. He’s another fan,” said Rufus. “He conjured up the Singer birth certificate for you.”

Bobby regarded the other man suspiciously. “Bobby Singer. This is my nephew, Dean.”

“The hair, Cupcake?” asked Frank, who evidently wouldn't be put off. “They cut it?”

“ _I_ cut it,” said Dean.

“Yes, he won a duel,” said Cas, putting a hand through his hair. “It was the only honorable thing to do,” he added, smiling at Dean.

“You’re trying to make me believe _you_ won a duel with the Avenging Angel, Buncakes?” Frank demanded of Dean.

Cas shrugged. “I was a little tired at the time.”

“Boy's too modest to say so, but I hear tell he took in the entire KU team,” Bobby informed him.

“Who got the hair? Did you keep it?” Frank now asked Dean.

“What? Ew! No.”

“My teammate Charlie took it,” said Cas. “She said she would make a wig?”

“Oh. Do you think she still has a lock?” Frank persisted.

“Okay, Frank?” said Rufus, who was now physically pushing Frank back. “You promised you wouldn't get creepy.”

“I'm not creepy! I'm a fan! I've seen your fights, Sugarplum,” he told Cas. “All of them!”

“That's not creepy at all,” said Dean, who was standing somewhat protectively at Cas's side now.

Cas was squinting at Frank. “My name is Castiel, not Sugarplum nor Cupcake. And I’m sorry. How can you have seen all of my fights? Those videotapes are restricted to a limited audience.” He was too polite to say that said audience tended to be very wealthy.

“We've got them all on tape,” Rufus explained. 

“You mean camera phone videos?”

“No, the official tapes!” Frank told him proudly.

“That's not possible.” Castiel looked back and for the between Frank and Rufus.

“There's those of us who are collectors,” said Rufus. “We've tapped into some alternative sources to assemble complete libraries.”

“Rufus,” said Bobby, “you're a bigger nutball than I ever imagined.” Rufus grinned. “You wanna quit heckling the kid and talk?”

 

They proceeded inside, Castiel stopping at the door to do the thing where he offered his sword to Rufus. Rufus and Frank spent what was probably a rude amount of time examining the blade with a kind of fan-ish glee before returning it to Cas. Dean had the funny feeling there was something bigger and older going on than he had reckoned. He knew the fundamentals of dueling etiquette: everyone did. But no one had ever seriously challenged him to a fight. His thoughts started to wander to what he'd do in a real street fight. But then he dismissed the idea as silly.

Once inside, Castiel enjoyed the very first French press coffee of his life, though Bobby demurred from drinking “that fancy pants gourmet shit,” so Rufus also rustled him up some Sanka. In the meantime, Frank was fussing with an assortment of computer equipment he had piled on the end of Rufus’s kitchen table. He plugged an external hard drive to his laptop and clicked around for a file.

“Take a look, Castiel,” he said. Cas, Dean and Bobby crowded around the small screen. There was a blast of noise of a rowdy crowd cheering. Rufus shouted at him, so Frank toggled the sound down. Dean thought it looked like total chaos, but soon realized it was a cage match. He recognized the look of the eight-sided, clear-walled ring in the center. He wondered how Cas – or anybody really – could duel under these conditions. The audience was literally screaming and throwing things. He could have sworn there were even people firing off guns, even thought he had never really heard a gun fire.

Two kids filed into the ring, and Dean thought he heard the word, “champions.” They looked like teenagers to him. The champions waved at the crowd, which went even more wild, and then two smaller kids were introduced. He recognized the one right off at Gabriel. He stared at the tiny, dark-haired boy beside him. “Cas! Is that you?”

“My first professional fight,” said Cas quietly. 

The official got them lined up. Even though he realized this was years in the past, Dean was immediately scared for Cas's sake: he must have been a full head shorter than the kid they matched him up with! 

And then the official counted down and they were off, bouncing around the cage like a set of crazy pinballs. Gabriel was amazing: impossibly quick and skillful. Dean wasn't sure how the hell an opponent could keep track of him. But Cas was a revelation. All of them used the wall: Dean was astonished how much more dynamic the fighters were compared to formal duelists. But Cas seemed to live in direct defiance of all laws of gravity. He was everywhere, running up and down and all around.

Dean was transfixed. There was a kind of beauty and joy to it. He saw how Cas said he tuned out the crowd during his fights. The only things he seemed aware of were Gabriel and his opponents, who, despite being champions of some kind, were quickly dispatched: one fell and did not get up, and the other surrendered soon after when both Cas and Gabe got the drop on him. 

“That's amazing!” said Dean as Frank stopped the video.

“That's a considerable raw talent!” Rufus shouted over as he brought out a plate of cookies. “Not as elegant as your later fights, but you could tell you got something.”

“Some of those moves,” said Cas, who was blushing slightly. “I can't manage them as well any more. I got too tall.”

“You were fourteen, Cupcake?” asked Frank.

“Thirteen,” said Cas.

Frank and Rufus looked at each other. “Holy crap,” said Rufus. “I didn't know that.”

“We didn't know that,” said Frank, who, oddly enough, pulled out a notebook and scrawled something illegible on the page.

“Is that a code?” asked Dean. Frank nodded curtly and closed up the notebook.

“You're from Zachariah's dojo?” Rufus asked Cas.

“Yes. _Joshua's_ dojo,” said Cas. “He was my sensei.”

“Oh, good man, Joshua. Had a real feel for the classic aspects of the sport.”

“You knew him?” asked Cas.

“I never had the honor of meeting him, no,” admitted Rufus, “but I was an acolyte.” 

“Is Joshua dead?” asked Dean, immediately regretting his words when he saw Cas's pained expression.

“To the best of our knowledge, no,” said Rufus looking over to Frank. He had just brought a stack of what looked like old magazines to the table and laid them down there.

“We can't find any evidence one way or the other, Hot Lips,” Frank told Dean. “Wherever he is, he doesn't want to be found.”

“The dojo was under new ownership,” said Rufus portentiously. “New and shadowy.”

Cas looked miserable. “After Zachariah showed up, we started to see less and less of Joshua. And then one day his office was shuttered and locked. We never saw him again. That was soon after Gabriel got injured.”

“That was a tragedy!” said Frank. Cas nodded sadly. “That boy had a unique style.”

“ _Has_ a unique style,” Cas shot back. “He’s not dead, you know.”

“Might as well be, Sugarplum,” snorted Frank. Cas was on his feet, both Bobby and Dean holding him back.

“Whoa!” said Rufus, smiling and tapping Cas on the chest. “Hold up there. I’ve got your honor, remember?” he asked. Cas slowly sank back down into his chair, Bobby and Dean sitting down beside him. Rufus breezed over to where Frank was sitting and then, to Dean’s horror, clobbered him but good. Dean jumped up again, but Bobby waved at him to sit down, while Castiel watched with seeming calm.

Rufus had a bleeding Frank by the collar. “You just insulted a street fighter under my roof, you big jackass. Apologize, or it will be my great pleasure to run you through.” Dean was flabbergasted: Rufus had gone from a friendly dude to one terrifying motherfucker in the space of an instant.

“I don’t fight!” Frank sputtered. “Rufus, you know that!”

“Then you might wanna apologize.”

Sweat dripping from his wide forehead, Frank nodded, and Rufus yanked him to his feet. “Uh, I’m sorry for causing offense, Castiel.” He wiped the blood on his lip with the back of his sleeve. “I guess I need to watch my mouth.”

“Accepted,” said Castiel. “Thank you. I am satisfied.” He had taken the opposite turn from Rufus, going from agitation to serenity as Rufus dealt with Frank.

“Rufus,” said Bobby, “like you know, street fighting ain’t my specialty. I just want an idea of what we’re in for with this kid under my roof.”

Frank had taken out a handkerchief and was daubing at his split lip. Rufus darted into the kitchen and, all politeness again, handed him a pack of frozen peas, which he applied to his mouth. “Long story short, you have no fucking idea what you’re dealing with.”

Rufus was now diving into the stack of magazines on his table. He pulled one out and slid it over so Cas could see it. “Recognize anybody?” he asked.

Dean peered over Cas’s shoulder. There was a big bear of a man sitting at ringside in the photograph. “Yes. That’s Zachariah,” he said, his voice flat. “The new sensei who took over from Joshua,” he added. Dean took him in: the dude was big as a house. He looked more like a fighter than a manager. And he was wearing the world's most self-satisfied smirk.

“And this?” asked Rufus, pushing over another magazine. The graphics on this one looked very different.

“This is another picture of Zachariah,” said Cas, surveying the characters sitting ringside.

“What, really?” asked Dean.

“Yes, I am certain.”

“Dude's looking awfully fit.” Cas appeared baffled, so Dean flipped over the magazine and pointed to the date: it had been published a good fifty years ago.

“This was out in the 1960s,” said Bobby. “What the hell?”

Rufus pulled out a crumbling, yellowed periodical from the 1920s, and turned to a black and white image. “That- That looks like Zachariah,” said Cas. “But it can’t be. Can it?”

“Now, my understanding is that sometimes different folks will take the same alias, handed down through the generations,” said Bobby. “You two knot heads sure that’s not the case here?”

“But, Bobby, look at the pictures!” Dean protested. “That’s not another guy. That’s him.”

“It's not just Zachariah. There are others. And we think it goes even further back,” said Rufus. 

“Like how far back?” asked Bobby.

“The Lincoln assassination,” said Frank.

Dean rolled his eyes. “For the last time, guys, it was the Lincon-Booth duel!”

“This Lincoln assassination,” said Cas quietly shaking his head.

“The Lincoln assassination,” agreed Rufus.

“Bobby,” pleaded Dean, turning towards his uncle.

“The Lincoln assassination,” Bobby concurred, to which Dean threw up his hands. “Dean, think, boy! You can believe some guy had been involved in street fighting for a damn century, but not that there was a conspiracy?”

“But crazy people believe that stuff, Bobby! And crazy people are crazy!”

Bobby looked Dean up and down. “Well, kid, you are definitely related to your Pa.”

“What?” said Dean.

“We think this all started with a group of Southern Plantation owners sometime in the middle of the Nineteenth Century,” Rufus told them. 

“They say that this group of men practiced _unnatural magic_ ,” said Frank, rubbing his glasses with the tail of his shirt.

“And who the hell are _they_?” demanded Dean. “There's always some mysterious 'they.'”

“Dean,” said Bobby, and Dean scowled. “Let the man finish a damn sentence.” He turned to Rufus and Frank. “Now, I heard it before that this went down because Lincoln was bent on eliminating indentured servitude.”

“Not only that: he and Secretary Seward had cooked up a plan to outlaw dueling,” said Rufus. “We have copies of their correspondence from the time.”

“They wanted to conquer the South, and they also wanted to eliminate the southern code of honor,” Frank added.

“So where does the magical part come in?” asked Dean, who got whacked in the back of the head by Bobby for his trouble.

Rufus sat back. “It's said they made a deal with a demon. He granted them eternal life. And gifted them with a great sword fighting abilities.”

“Oh, so that explains why they're mucking around in street fighting,” said Bobby, sipping his terrible Sanka. “Now that there's big money in the sport. So what do you folks reckon we got in store now we've got a runaway under my roof?”

Rufus sat back. “Well, we've been through this before. Remember those bounty hunters from Tennessee who we thought were using paranormal methods. Kubrick and Creedy?”

“Yup, how could I forget those idjits?”

“You're going to have to start using … alternative methods. Some warding. We've got some sigils that you should put up around your property.”

“What about when the kid is fighting?”

“There's precautions for that too,” said Rufus, pulling up his sleeve to reveal an intricate design marked on the inside of his wrist.

“You mean we get tattoos?” asked Dean eagerly.

“Thought you didn't believe in this horse shit?” asked Bobby.

“I could start believing.”

Cas had been quietly leafing through the oldest periodical. “Dean!” he exclaimed, pushing the magazine towards his friend.

“What's up, Cas?”

Cas was excitedly pointing at another photo: a pair of duelists matched up in an old-fashioned square ring. They were both dark-skinned, although the crowd assembled around them was white. “Dean, this fighter?”

“Yeah? What about him.”

“This is Joshua.”

Rufus and Frank had both jumped up – as fast as old legs would allow that is – and crowded around as well. “You sure kid?” asked Bobby. Cas nodded solemnly.

“I've never even seen a picture of him before,” said Rufus as Frank scribbled madly in his little notebook.

“You ain't gonna tell me Joshua was a southern plantation owner,” said Bobby. 

“What does this mean, Bobby?” asked Cas.

Bobby nodded thoughtfully. “Kid, I think it means we need to figure out what the hell happened to your old sensei.”

Cas opened his mouth to speak. He thought the better of it, and then began again. “Can I ask one more thing?”

“Anything!” said Rufus.

“If it’s not too much trouble…. I never knew my parents. I mean, not even their names. If you had any way of finding out….” He trailed off, and Dean was there, squeezing his shoulder.

“We’ll see what we can do,” said Rufus.

“No problemo, kemosabe,” added Frank.

 

 

“I'm worried about my brother. I'm worried about Gabriel.”

Cas had been silent on the drive back from Rufus's house, so the comment startled Dean, who had been nodding off. 

“From what I’ve heard about him, I think Gabe can take care of himself,” said Bobby. 

“I don’t know how to get a message to him,” said Cas.

“When Sam gets back, we’ll tell him to call Jess to call Pamela to call Gabriel,” suggested Dean.

“Is that how you kids communicate nowadays?” huffed Bobby.

“It works.” Dean had been drooping over, leaning on Cas, and he now shifted to get even more comfortable. 

“Make yourself at home, kid,” chuckled Bobby.

“So, Cas, you were fighting when you were just a little kid?” Dean asked him.

“I was small for my age,” said Cas.

“No, but you said that fight? You were thirteen?”

“Yes. As I told you, I was thirteen. Gabriel was fifteen.”

“Yeah, I remember when Sammy and I were about that age….”

“You were setting off illegal firecrackers, and making my life hell,” said Bobby.

“We make your life exciting, Uncle Bobby.” They had arrived at Singer Salvage, so Dean hopped out of the truck to open the gate. Sam was waiting for them when they pulled up, pacing back and down beside the Impala, looking upset. He was holding his old dueling sword.

“Sammy, what the hell?” asked Dean.

“I was followed!” said Sam. 

“Really? Is my car okay?” asked Dean, tracing a hand along the Impala’s fender.

“Dean!” shouted Sam. “This isn’t funny.”

“No, it ain’t,” agreed Bobby. “Did you lose ‘em?”

Sam nodded. “I think so. The way you taught me. It was a black car with tinted windows, so I couldn’t see who was driving.”

“You get the plates? We can run a reverse search.”

“Yeah. It started with the letters CD Bobby.”

“Duelists?” asked Cas. “They’re looking for me.”

“That would be my guess,” said Bobby. “They must know where we are, so I’d imagine they were trying to catch you alone. I think it’s gonna be best if we travel in groups for a while. And make sure you're packing a sidearm. Yeah, even you Sam. In the meantime,” he went over towards the shed and grabbed a couple of paint cans, “we gotta put some warding up. You boys grab a can and a paint brush. We're having a sigil painting party.”

“A what?” asked Sam.

“Sounds good. As long as there's beer,” said Dean.

 

“It was in the storeroom,” said Dean as he helped Cas push the heavy piece of equipment out onto the gym floor late the next evening. Thankfully, the day had proved uneventful. Dean, who had decided that maybe his younger brother had been mistaken about the whole being followed thing, decided to stay late to practice with Cas, so Sam had caught a ride home from school with Jess.

“I don’t understand. Why would your university offer training in street fighting?” Cas grunted. It was built to look like one corner of a high wall, set up on collapsible rollers so it could be transported. Dean pulled a lever, and the equipment settled down to the floor with a great thump. 

Dean gave the practice wall a kick. “Seems steady,” he said.

Cas gave a small smile. He stepped away a few paces, and then suddenly ran up and did a backflip against it, sticking a perfect landing. “Appears so,” he grinned.

Dean was grinning too. “Let’s be serious. You said you’d show me a couple moves.”

“I have a lot of moves,” said Cas. Funny, just being around the wall piece made him seem different, more confident. “Which ones?”

“Don’t be a smartass. I’m not going to be doing that any time soon,” he said, gesturing a backflip. “Just start with the simple stuff.”

Cas nodded and had Dean help him pull one of the mats over to tuck right underneath the wall. 

“One more thing,” said Cas, going over to the cabinet containing the swords. He grabbed an older one and brought it out, handing it to Dean.

“A kiddie sword?” said Dean, glaring at the wooden practice blade.

“You could use it or not, Dean. I supposed it depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“How important it is for you to count to ten on your fingers?”

Dean glowered but picked up the battered sword and followed Cas back over to the wall section. 

“You understand the concept, right, Dean? The object is not to make the move look stylish, although some of us can’t help that.” The edge of his mouth ticked up in a little smile again, and Dean sort of wanted to wipe the expression off his face. “Let me show you a simple one.” And then, using his regular, cool sword, Cas kicked off the side of the wall, sweeping his sword around in what was inarguably a very awesome cool move. “I want you to try it. Concentrate on the footwork. And try not to drop the sword.”

Gripping the wooden sword’s hilt tightly – Dean decided then and there that he would not let it out of his hand no matter what happened – Dean mentally rehearsed the move a couple of time, and then, stepping back a pace, took a run at the wall, kicked off….

…And landed in a tangle of his own legs, right on his ass.

“You didn’t drop the sword. Very good,” mused Cas.

Dean leapt up, rubbing his sore backside. “I almost got it.”

“That was very graceful, Dean. That move would definitely intimidate an opponent.”

Dean glared at Cas. “You know, you really need someone to wipe that little smirk off your face.”

“What smirk?” smirked Cas.

Dean practiced the move a few more times, and ended up on his posterior probably more than he would have liked. But with some encouragement, and rather too much smugness on Cas’s part, he finally was able to land on his feet, and then add a satisfying sword flourish to the mix.

Dean whooped and leapt down the mat, waving the wooden sword in triumph. “That is a blast!”

“Next time, we’ll try it with a real sword.”

“Downer,” said Dean.

“…set to two.”

Dean gripped him by the collar and tugged him nearer. “Cas. Quit. Being. A smartass.”

Cas stared right back at him, his eyes bright. “No.”

They both jumped as the door slammed shut.

“What the hell did you boys do to my gym?” bellowed Coach Henricksen, striding over in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“I thought this gym was no smoking,” said Dean.

“Tell it to your old man. Now what was so damned important you had to interrupt my smoke break to talk?”

“It’s Cas, Coach.”

“What about him now? Is he gonna grow a beard? I’ve spent way too much time this fucking semester on that boy’s facial hair.”

Cas looked serious. “I’ve separated from my dojo, sir,” he told Henricksen.

“Separated? What the hell does that mean?”

“The head of his dojo, Zachariah, was going to pull him off the team. And out of college.” 

“Was that what all the fuss was about the other day?” asked Henricksen.

“We think so,” Dean told him. “So Cas took off. He’s staying with us now.”

“Your Uncle Bobby?” Henricksen asked. Dean nodded. “He’s one prize old asshole. What do you want me to do about it?”

Dean looked at Cas. “Bobby said we should talk to you about Cas playing on the team. It may be … dangerous.”

Henricksen looked between Cas and Dean. He carelessly flicked ashes on the floor. “Oh, so those guys weren’t entirely happy about you leaving I take it?”

“Meg saw some suspicious guys hanging around the gym after the last practice. And we’re pretty sure someone was tailing Sam the other day.”

Henricksen snorted. “They can bite my ass. I’ve got a winning team. Cas plays.”

“Just like that?” asked Dean.

“Yeah. Wanna fight about it?” asked the coach, nodding at Dean’s wooden sword.

“Uh, not with this sword,” said Dean.

“I was gonna get to Harvelle's for a beer and a game of darts. You guys wanna join me?”

Dean and Cas cheerfully agreed. They had a lot of equipment and were feeling a little lazy, so Dean volunteered to bring the car around while Henricksen and Cas pushed the heavy practice wall aside.

Dean was walking down a narrow pathway between two buildings on his way back to the gym when the men stepped in front of him. There were three of them, and all carried sidearms.

“We're looking for Castiel. We hear you two are tight.”

“Cas isn't here,” said Dean, putting a hand on his sword hilt.

“Maybe you could bring us to him.”

“Yeah. Or maybe not.”

“I asked politely,” said the man. “Next time, I won’t be so polite.” They unsheathed their swords.

So did Dean. _Three of them, one of me_ , he thought. _Good odds._ He let his sword fall down and tapped his boot once, twice, feeling the crackle of the shielding, smelling the ozone of his ignited blade. The other guys mirrored the gesture. So this was really happening. The small hairs on the back of Dean's wrist stood up from the blade's electrical field. 

And then Dean did something completely stupid, as if he weren't already acting idiotic enough: he hopped up the wall and tried the exact same move Cas had showed him just a few minutes earlier. Thankfully, he didn't end up on his ass, and it must have been impressive enough that one of the sub-goons yelled, “Fuck, watch out! He's a street fighter!” and lowered his sword.

Dean basically crashed into another guy, but it was a good enough hit to knock the guy over with his sword hild. He turned to the third guy, parrying a mediocre lunge just in time. The blades sparked and Dean smiled: these guys weren't very good. He attacked, getting in the guy's face, trying to disarm him. They crossed swords one, two, three times, orange sparks crackling in the alley like Fourth of July fireworks.

A blade went skidding across the alley. 

“Hold it right there!” came the lead goon's voice. Dean whirled around, sword in hand, preparing to dice the sucker.

He stopped short.

Lead Goon Guy was holding a gun. _A gun._ Some kind of pistol. Dean was almost too fascinated to be afraid. Uncle Bobby had a couple of antique shotguns in his collection, but he had never seen an actual working handgun before. 

At least, he assumed they were working. He gulped.

The scent of Marlboro.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Dean had never been so grateful to hear the sound of his coach's voice. “Henricksen,” he muttered as the coach and Cas strolled up, “they've got guns.” And it was true. The other two had gotten back to their feet, and now all were brandishing firearms. 

Well, explained why they were fucking awful swordsmen.

“Castiel. Just the man we're looking for. Could you come with us?” asked Lead Goon Guy.

“Castiel is busy right now,” said Henricksen. “He’s got beer to drink.” He and Cas were now flanking Dean.

“I think he comes with us now.”

“Dean, stay behind us,” whispered Henricksen. He nodded to Cas, who was now quietly seething. “You dare threaten us with … guns?” he asked Lead Goon. 

“Yeah, I threaten you with _guns_ , smart guy.”

“Put it down, or I’ll have it. And your arm.”

This seemed to put off the lead guy, if only for a moment. But then his resolve hardened. “Give us the boy.”

“Over a dead body. Probably yours,” said Henricksen. He tossed his cigarette butt to the side.

And then a lot of things happened all at once. Dean got broadsided and slammed to the ground, the sound of gunshots echoing over him. He looked up to see Cas already up overhead, sword flashing and sparking off the spray of bullets.

Henricksen was running up the side of the building while bits of plaster sprayed from gunshots, and then he slashed another guy in the neck while Cas pulled his own sword out of the third guy, who fell with a thump, moaning at the deep gash in his side.

The guy who had spoken was now on his knees, his gun, as well as his gun arm, lying in a bloody pool on the ground.

‘You threaten me with a gun?” yelled Henricksen. “A _gun_?” he yelled, grabbing the dismembered guy by the collar and shaking him. 

Cas pried the gun out of the dead hand. He flipped it up in the air, and flicked his sword. It fell in pieces of hot metal on the ground.

Dean spotted something on the ground nearby. He picked up a small, hot metallic object. It looked like a bullet.

It was part of a bullet. It had been sliced clean in half.

Dean blinked between Cas and the Coach.

“You go back to your boss,” Henricksen told the now one-armed guy. “You tell them next time, I’ll send you guys back in a bucket. You tell him not to piss off the Dark Agent.” He nodded to Cas and the two of them yanked Dean up off the ground. Dean pocketed the half bullet, and they made their way to the parking lot.

They arrived at Harvelle’s Roadhouse bar some time later, Dean not quite certain how he’d gotten there. He downed a big gulp from the beer sitting in front of him. He felt in his pocket, and pulled out the bullet fragment. “The guys with guns: they had guns,” he babbled. “The gun guys.”

“Those lousy sonsabitches!” Henricksen raved. “They didn’t just wanna kill us, they wanted to dishonor us.” He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. Dean noticed with wonder that Ellen was letting him smoke in her bar. 

“You’re a street fighter, Coach?” said Cas.

Henricksen nodded. He leaned over towards Cas. “You understand why I don’t want this to get around?”

Cas nodded enthusiastically. “What was your dojo?”

“Didn’t have one. My grandpa was a Freedman.”

“You learned from a Freedman?” asked Cas, who appeared enormously impressed.

“Yeah. Long story. Grandpa was a sensei, but my dad didn’t want anything to do with that life. He just wanted to be a fat businessman. Anyway, I had my grandpa teach me everything he knew, once I was old enough. I even fought in a few semi-pro bouts. It was strictly small time, nothing like your circuit. But I finally decided my knees were not gonna hold out for much longer, so I started coaching instead.”

“I would be greatly honored if you would share you grandfather's teachings some time,” Cas told him.

“I've probably forgotten half of it,” said Henricksen. “And I don't see how I'd have much to teach a guy like you. But, yeah, okay. Buy me another beer.”

Dean opened his hand containing the half bullet. He waved it in front of Cas. “Cas, did you...?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Holy shit.” He looked between Cas and Henricksen. “You can do that?”

“Some guys can do that,” said Henricksen, smiling at Cas. “I bet it's a bitch to practice though.”

Dean suddenly turned around to the sound of his own name being called. He stood, and found himself engulfed in one of Sam's tremendous bear hugs. “Dean,” said Bobby, who grabbed his shoulder once Sam released him. 

“Are you guys all okay?” Sam asked Cas and Henricksen.

“They tried guns on us. Guns! Rat bastards,” grumbled Henricksen.

“Bobby. Sam. What are you guys doing here?” asked Dean.

“I called them,” Ellen told him. “Soon as you got here, and Victor explained what happened.”

“Oh,” said Dean. Had Henricksen told the story? It was all a blur. 

“I believe Dean is suffering from some after-effects,” said Cas, his voice filled with concern.

“We'll get you boys home,” said Bobby. “Dean, you give Sam your car keys.”

“What, my keys?” asked Dean, who nonetheless dug them out. Sam grabbed them. 

“Dean, you're in the truck with me. Cas, you go with Sam. Sam, you stick close, you hear. On my bumper.”

“Yessir,” said Sam.

“Will you be all right getting home, Victor?” Bobby asked.

“Mr. Dark Agent is spending the night here,” said Ellen.

“I am?” grinned Henricksen.

“On the couch, hotshot,” she corrected. “Jo will grab you some blankets.”

“Victor,” said Bobby. “What you done. For my kids.” He stuck out a hand.

Henricksen reached over and shook. “It was nothing. And that one got two of them,” he said, nodding towards Cas.

Dean looked at Cas, who he found had an arm around his shoulders. “You got two.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Did you do the arm thing?”

“Yes, I did the arm thing.”

“That was pretty badass.”

“I think they will be able to sew it back on again. If they get to him in time. And he doesn't lose too much blood.”

“Uh. Good to know,” said Dean, who was ushered into the waiting car by Sam.

They made an extra careful effort to secure the property that evening, double locking the gate, and making sure the doors and windows were bolted. 

Bobby had found a cot folded up in the attic, and they had pushed it into Dean's room for Cas to sleep on, despite his protestations that the floor was completely sufficient. Dean sat on his own bed, covers bunched up around him, watching Cas return from the bathroom, towel over his shoulder, holding his toothbrush. Cas sat down on his cot and tucked the toothbrush into his toiletry bag. “You know, we told you, you could just leave that stuff in the bathroom.”

“I don't want to intrude,” said Cas. “I've caused enough trouble as it is.”

“Hey, tonight was awesome. Even if it was sort of fucking scary.”

“I don't know if- Dean!” 

Dean had started to tremble violently. Castiel hurried over to him, but the seemed uncertain what to do. Dean wrapped his arms around his knees, but seemed unable to stop shaking. “Cas?” he whispered.

Cas sat on the bed and slid over towards Dean, and put his arms around him. And then he slowly lowered his shaking friend down to the bed, so he was lying in back of him, arms around him. “It's all right. I'm here.” The trembling slowed, and Dean's breathing started to ease.

“Just- Just-”

“What, Dean?” 

Dean twisted his head around to look Cas in the eye. “Don't tell Sam!”

Cas smiled and hugged tighter. “I won't,” he promised. “I won't.” 

They were silent for a long moment, the only sound hushed breathing and Dean's heart pounding against his rib cage. 

“Dean, you took on three armed men?”

“I didn't know they had guns! And ... I thought they wanted to hurt you.”

“That was very brave.”

“Yeah?”

“No one's ever done anything like that for me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Dean broke into a broad, blushing smile. Very slowly, his heart stopped its mad racing, and his breathing slowed to a steady, quiet rhythm. And that was how he fell asleep that night, held tightly in Cas's arms.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 8 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, mild sexual situations, no beta. This chapter contains violence some may find upsetting.  
 **Word Count:** 75,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter, some unexpected guests arrive at Bobby's place, and there are happenings with the fencing team.

 

_So many guns._

_They're playing K-State. Crowley and Ruby and Alastair and all of them. But then they all dropped their swords and pulled out guns and started firing. The KU team dove for the empty stands._

_And the band was playing. First slow, then fast. “Rock. Chalk. Jayhawk. KUUUUUU!”_

_Henricksen is there._

_“It's not fair, Coach,” Dean tells him._

_“Rock. Chalk. Jayhawk. KUUUUUU!”_

_But Henricksen turns around and it's not Henricksen._

_“Dad?”_

_He points down to the court. Dean turns, face contorted in horror._

_“Rock. Chalk. Jayhawk. KUUUUUU!”_

_“Cas! No!”_

_Castiel seems unaware of the bullets whizzing by. He's striding across the court, sword drawn, wearing an expression of terrible vengeance._

_And Dean is leaping out of the stands after him._

_But he's not Cas. Not any more._

_He's grown bigger._

_So much bigger._

_And he glows._

_And...._

_And...._

_“Rock. Chalk. Jayhawk. KUUUUUU!”_

_A mighty pair of wings sprout from his shoulders. His sword is aflame. He has become the soul of wrath. His anger is great._

_His vengeance … terrible._

 

Dean awoke to the cacophony of a great pounding on Bobby’s front door, the weird dream fading in the mist. He and Cas, still in pajamas, hurried down the stairs to see Bobby already standing in the entryway, sword poised. Sam, yawning mightily, was right behind them.

“You kids, keep back,” Bobby warned. 

“I should go out there!” said Cas.

“You stay back like I told you,” barked Bobby, who was peering through the peep hole on the front door. “Oh for the love of- Quit pounding! I got the door!” he shouted to whoever was outside. To Dean’s shock, Bobby unlocked the door and threw it open.

“Where’s my brother?” bellowed Gabriel, flourishing a sword in a threatening manner.

“How the hell did you get inside here, boy?” asked Bobby.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Cas deadpanned.

Gabriel lowered the sword. “Cassie? Wait, weren't you kidnapped?”

“No. I ran away.”

“What? Why would you do something as bone-headed as that, you dick brain?”

Bobby had walked out to the front porch, and now turned and confronted Gabriel. “What the fuck did you do to my gate, ya idjit!”

Dean hopped out on the front porch as well, although he wasn't wearing shoes, and it was cold as hell on his bare feet. He looked at the gate: the chain link fence had been utterly shredded by something: could it have been Gabriel's sword? Were they really that sharp? And the inevitable town car was parked nearby in the driveway. Dean assumed this was how Gabriel had gotten all the way out her so late at night.

“Uh, sorry,” said Gabriel, who was suddenly occupied with scratching the back of his neck. “I may have gotten … overwrought.”

“Overwrought? I'm trying to keep my kids safe from some crazy ass street fighter thugs and you tear down my damned fence?”

Gabriel grinned sheepishly. “I take it you're Bobby?”

“And you’re Gabe. The Trickster. I recognized your ugly mug from your fights.”

“None other!” Gabriel stuck out a cheerful hand, and Bobby took it. “I got back to the dojo and Cassie was gone. They told me you kidnapped my brother.”

“And you believed 'em?” grumbled Bobby.

“They locked me in a room Gabriel,” Cas told him. “They told me they would take me out of school.”

Gabriel threw up his hands impatiently. “I go away for a couple days, and all hell breaks loose?”

Bobby snorted. “They _sent_ you away, ya idjit. Isn't that obvious?”

Gabriel absently twirled his sword. “What the hell? I didn't think even Zachariah would stoop that low. So what do we do now?”

At that point the town car's door opened, and the driver emerged. He was a tall man. He doffed his cap. He had very long blond hair, caught in a ponytail fastened at the nape of his neck.

Cas let out a cry and ran over to him, engulfing him in a hug. “Balthazar!”

“Balthie?” said Gabriel. “What the hell?”

“You didn't even notice he was driving?” Cas asked Gabriel.

“Who notices the driver?” Gabriel scoffed.

“And who the hell is this?” asked Bobby.

Cas smiled. Dean thought he had never seen him smile quite that way before: his whole face lit up. “Bobby, this is Balthazar. He was Joshua's assistant. For many, many years.”

“You know Joshua?” asked Bobby. “I have an interest in talking with that individual.”

Balthazar smiled serenely. “I've come here to talk. Your warding was keeping me away, until Gabriel managed to punch such a lovely hole in your perimeter.” Balthazar indicated the mangled fence, and Bobby heaved a deep, disappointed sigh. “But may I make a suggestion? The night is cold, and you are all weary. Perhaps we should wait until the morning?”

“I'll need to stand guard,” said Bobby. “I’ll need to brew me some coffee.”

“I can take care of the fence,” Balthazar assured him.

Bobby gave him a skeptical glance. “You brought your welding equipment, Balthy?”

Balthazar grinned and strode over to the fence. Everyone crowded along behind him, even though Dean could feel his toes getting numb. Balthazar stood near the fence and held up one hand, palm facing outward, and repeated some words in a strangely accented language.

There was a barely audible hum, and then to Dean's astonishment, the cut ends of the chain link began to glow softly, and then knit themselves back together. 

“There you are!” said Balthazar, pleased at a job well done. 

Bobby padded over and tugged at the fence. He turned to Baltahazar. “Balthazar, answer me truly. Are you a demon?”

“He's no demon!” said Gabriel. “He’s…. Uh…. I dunno.”

Balthazar laughed. “No, I’m not a demon, Bobby. But once, very long ago, I was an angel.”

“Holy crap!” said Dean. “Uh, sorry,” he added, covering his mouth.

“Wait. What?” said Gabriel. 

Balthazar put one arm around Gabriel's shoulders, and another around Castiel. “We will talk in the morning. You all need rest. As I don't require sleep, I will stand watch.”

Bobby stared at Balthazar, and then at Cas. “You vouch for him, Cas?”

Castiel nodded enthusiastically. “Balthazar will protect us.” 

To Dean’s surprise, given the somewhat outlandish story, Bobby agreed, and everyone but Balthazar made their way inside, Dean hopping on half-frostbitten feet. Gabriel casually handed his sword over to Bobby when they crossed the threshold, and Bobby had Sam and Dean grab some blankets so he could crash on the living room couch for the rest of the night. The rest of them headed upstairs. Cas started to head over to his cot, but Dean grabbed him by the back of his T shirt and tugged him back onto his bed. “You can't go over there. My feet are cold as ice!”

Cas looked uncertainly at Dean. “It's now my job to keep you warm, Dean?”

“Yes!” One thing Dean had learned for certain, once he had stopped trembling earlier that night, was that Cas was like a small furnace. “You can't let all that body heat go to waste. Come on.” 

Cas smiled skeptically, but then good-naturedly slipped in beside Dean. “Darn!” he shouted as he encountered one of the icy appendages. “I think you have circulation issues.” He squirmed back into his old position, on his side, holding Dean close, but kept his own feet well away from Dean's.

“So, you don't seem too freaked out about Balthazar?” Dean asked after they were comfortable.

“Why should I be … freaked out?”

“After he did the weird shit with the fence?”

Castiel was quiet for so long Dean wondered if he had dozed off. Finally he said, “I wish you had known Joshua. I knew he was different. He and Balthazar both. I don't know how I knew. But I knew.”

“Okay,” said Dean. To his own surprise, after all the excitement that day, he had started feeling very sleepy.

“Just go to sleep now,” Cas whispered. 

 

Dean awoke to the smell of cinnamon and spices. He thought at first it was Cas, but noticed with a twinge of disappointment that he was alone in the bed. 

He heard noises downstairs, so he washed his face and headed down to find Uncle Bobby's kitchen filled with street fighters. Balthazar and Cas were busy cooking, while Gabriel was sitting up on the counter (lucky for him Bobby wasn't around) snatching at things to nibble on. 

Dean was most surprised to see Cas acting like a chatterbox, at least relative to his usual taciturn attitude. While he efficiently chopped tomatoes into neat little bits Balthazar affectionately ruffed his hair while Gabriel used the opportunity to lean over and filch a slice of chopped vegetables. Dean paused in the doorway. It looked as if they had been passing mornings like this all their lives.

“Dean!” said Balthazar. “I’ve been hearing some very good things about you.”

“Really?” said Dean as Cas shyly ducked his head.

“It's good you're here!” Balthazar told him as he came over and ushered Dean into the kitchen. “We need to make coffee, and I don't know how strong your Uncle Bobby likes it.”

Dean laughed. “Strong enough to stand up a spoon!” he answered, going for the filters. “I dunno what he's gonna think about so many vegetables for breakfast though,” he added pointing to the rather large bowl of chopped victuals Cas had prepared.

“It will all be thrown into a Spanish omelet,” Balthazar assured him. “Believe me, he'll never notice.”

Cas grabbed something out of the oven. It smelled heavenly. “Holy shit, are those actual cinnamon rolls?” asked Dean.

“Would you like to help me frost them?” asked Cas, waving the tray under Dean's nose.

“I wanna help frost!” said Gabriel.

“You'll just eat all the frosting,” said Cas, keeping the tray away from him in a manner that looked very practiced. “Like you always do.”

“Gabriel, please go out and find Bobby,” said Balthazar. “Tell him breakfast is almost ready.”

Gabriel grunted, but, after snatching some chopped melon from a bowl, grabbed his cane from where he’d hung it on the kitchen counter and sauntered out the door.

Cas handed Dean a knife, and they both dipped into the buttery frosting. “We need to do this before they cool so it will make a glaze,” Cas told him as Dean greedily ran a finger over his knife and licked his finger. 

“So good,” sighed Dean, who was never quite as happy as when he was eating.

“Gabriel will end up eating ninety percent of them anyway,” sighed Cas.

“So you're a street fighter too, Balthazar?”

Balthazar had cracked a number of eggs into a bowl and had started heating a fry pan. “Many years ago, my function was something like that. In recent years, I worked more along the lines of a scout.”

“Balthazar found me!” said Cas. “He picked me!”

“It was a little bit of a job convincing Joshua to take in another hungry mouth,” said Balthazar, who was fiddling with the burner. “But I was quite convinced he wouldn't be able to resist once he'd seen you.”

“He knocked me down,” said Cas, who still stung with the memory. “Twice! He was a real jerk.”

“And then he gave Gabriel a little smack, and I thought you were going to take his head off.”

“I wonder what he would have done if I had punched him right in the nose?”

“To give you some context, Dean, Cas was about yea high when this took place.” Balthazar's hand hovered down quite near the floor, and Dean laughed, imagining a very tiny, very cross Castiel, his little hands balled into fists.

“What?” asked Cas, to which, in way of reply, Dean tapped a dab of frosting on his nose. Cas went cross-eyed looking at his own nose, and then drew back into his full _en garde_ stance, holding the frosting-coated butter knife. Dean hooted with laughter and held up his own knife in an elaborate two-handed grip.

“Coffee?” came a small moan. Dean turned to his sleepy-eyed brother, who nearly filled the kitchen doorway. 

“Dean, pour your brother some coffee, and then you two boys set the table,” Balthazar told him. Dean set down his “weaponry” and poured a little of Bobby's spoon-stander coffee into a mug for Sam, and then the boys went about grabbing dishes as Bobby arrived with Gabriel in tow. Dean realized as he was setting up that everyone seemed to be in a good mood this morning, and he wondered if Balthazar's presence had to do with it. Balthazar was just as good at ordering around people as Bobby, but for some reason, it felt more like _suggestions_ when Balthazar did it.

They all settled into breakfast, and Balthazar was right, Bobby had no objection at all to a Spanish omelet. Gabriel ended up grabbing half of the cinnamon rolls, and even Cas was eating heartily for once and not just picking at his food. 

“So tell me, Balthazar,” started Bobby, putting down his coffee mug. “Is everybody in your dojo some kind of gourmet chef?”

“Not Gabriel!” both Cas and Balthazar answered, laughing. 

“It's an environment with many hungry, growing boys, who are also active athletes, so we put as much effort into food as we do training,” said Balthazar.

“Food and pornography,” Gabriel piped up, to a roar of laughter from Bobby. Cas pretended to be utterly fascinated with his omelet.

Balthazar was laughing too. “Yes, and the local brothels get more than their share of patronage.” Dean grinned, but Sam was looking slightly aghast. Hadn't Balthazar claimed he was some kind of ex-angel?

“Remember when I took you for your first visit?” Gabriel asked Cas.

Castiel hung his head. “Of course I remember. I threw up.”

“He was a little young, Gabriel,” scolded Balthazar.

“I took him after his first match!” said Gabriel.

“You were only 13?” asked Dean. Cas, whose face was now beet-red, nodded. “Geez, dude, I would have thrown up too!”

“They were nice, though,” said Cas. “They gave me a cold towel for my forehead. And then we stayed up all night just talking. And she told me to come back. In a couple more years.”

“So … did you?” asked Sam, though Dean tried so shush him.

“Um. Yeah.” And it was Dean's turn to be shocked.

“So, Balthazar, you wanna tell us what was so danged important it caused you fellows to tear up my fence?” asked Bobby, who, despite the delicious breakfast, still carried a modicum of bitterness.

“It's a long story, so I had hoped you would be rested and well fed first,” said Balthazar. “But first, how much do you know about Zachariah?”

“Not much. I just recently heard tell that Zachariah was a nineteenth century plantation owner from down south, which would make him pretty damned old.”

Balthazar pushed his plate away slightly and inclined his head. “That's correct, for as far as it goes. More accurately, Zachariah's human vessel was a plantation owner. If you'll remember, back then, your country was still quite young, and at that time, the original leaders – Washington, Jefferson, Adams – were still a living memory to a lot of people. As they died off, however, a group of Southern men with similar sympathies began to assemble. They were convinced that the country was headed in the wrong direction.”

“There's still folks who would say that,” said Dean, munching on a crispy slice of bacon.

“There's always folks would say that,” said Bobby.

“This group foresaw that the south would steadily lose power to the most industrial north. So they began seeking other solutions, and one dark avenue they ventured down was the occult. From what we can tell, they only dabbled for many years, but then Abraham Lincoln was elected president.”

“And he wanted to do away with slavery. And dueling,” said Dean.

“Correct! So the men of this group decided that serious measures were called for. They grew bolder, and this resulted in their biggest triumph, which was also their biggest mistake.”

“What happened?” asked Sam, who, like Cas and Bobby, had stopped eating to hang on every word. Dean was still happily eating while he listened, and Gabriel was unwinding another cinnamon bun.

“They somehow got access to a forbidden book. We are still not certain how this happened. It was a very dangerous book, and we who were watching over earth at that time had thought all copies had been destroyed. The trouble for this group of was that, in the interim while the book was no longer known, some knowledge had also been lost. These men cast a spell thinking to summon a demon. But what they summoned was much worse.”

“Worse than demons?” asked Dean, who was trying to imagine. Maybe it was dragons with mounted laser beams?

“They summoned a group of fallen angels. Who proceeded to possess – or try to possess – the bodies of the men. Zachariah survived, or rather his vessel survived to contain him. But several of the men perished in the process. It's not easy containing an angel, even a fallen one.”

“Did they blow up or something?” asked Dean, who was always eager for the gory details.

“Yes, something like that,” said Balthazar. 

“Ewwww!” chimed in Gabriel through a mouth full of roll. 

“Don't talk with your mouth full, kid. It ain't polite,” Bobby chided. “So, Balthy, can I assume that another of these men was John Wilkes Booth?”

“The Lincoln … _assassination_?” asked Dean.

“That's what it amounted to,” Balthazar told them. “Lincoln was goaded into the duel. His secretary of state, Seward, tried to talk him out of it, but Lincoln was convinced it would be a failure of honor to refuse. But Seward was not a stupid man. He realized something unnatural had occurred. After the duel, he sought out occult practices as well, and managed to summon Joshua down to earth. Joshua in turn summoned me. I am a sacred warrior of the Lord, and I was able to slay Booth. It was his just punishment for taking the life of a human.”

“Oh, so that’s why Booth mysteriously disappeared,” said Bobby.

“I thought Booth committed suicide,” said Sam, who had obviously been paying attention in history class.

“That’s what they claim,” Bobby told him, “but word is he was stabbed twenty-three times.”

Balthazar smiled with a rather obvious false modestly. “I may have had a hand in that. But after that, Zachariah and his associates grew more cunning. We are bound by strict laws here on earth. We can only take blood for blood. Zachariah instead began to train men in fighting, and to use unnatural methods to help them grow strong. So Joshua chose to remain behind on earth and became a sensei as well. For my part, I became a sort of talent scout. I walked the earth, looking for young ones with a certain spark.” At this, Cas puffed up proudly and Gabriel shoved more omelet into his mouth. 

“Or a certain gut,” said Bobby. “Where the hell do you put all that food, kid?”

Gabriel grinned a grin laced with spinach from the Balthazar's omelet.

“But you need to understand the greater purpose of the dojo, at least when Joshua was running it and I was assisting him. We trained a few great fighters, like Castiel and Gabriel here, who would go out and fight for money and fame. But that was never our main mission. The vast majority of the boys would never fight professionally. They will go back into the community, where some will teach, and some will fight. But they will fight for what's right and just.”

“The folks as take the fight against the bounty hunters,” said Bobby. “That makes sense.”

“Some of your old friends, Castiel, like Samandriel, and Inias, are out there even now.”

“I should have been doing that, instead wasting my time of prize fighting,” said Cas.

“No,” said Balthazar. “Your place was on the circuit. Your fights brought in prize money. And it brought us honor.”

“So, why are you telling us all this?” asked Bobby.

Balthazar suddenly looked very far away. “Matters between ourselves and Zachariah stood like that for many years. A stalemate, you might say. But that changed recently. As you know, there has been a lot of money coming into the sport recently, now that fights are broadcast remotely. As you also know, some men have developed much more sophisticated performance enhancing drugs. One of the drugs had a most unexpected side effect. As it turns out, fighters treated with this drug are now more suitable as vessels.”

“Uriel!' said Cas. “That's what happened to him. It's what they did to Uriel.”

“Now, calm down, kiddo,” said Gabriel. “You don't know that. Maybe Uriel is just a big asshole.”

Castiel glared at his brother. “I know it, Gabriel. And so do you.”

Dean scratched his head. “You think Uriel, the guy you fought with, is now possessed by demons?”

“Angels,” said Bobby. 

“I think so,” said Cas. “Gabriel, Uriel was a jerk. Even I noticed that. But I just don't think he would have taken a life so capriciously before. He liked to cheat, not to kill.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Sam, who had finally ingested enough coffee to get his brain started. “You said this Zachariah dude was running your dojo?”

“Hey, that's true. If Joshua was an angel, why didn't he just smite Zachariah’s pansy ass?” asked Dean.

Balthazar sighed. “As I've said, as Heaven's servants, we are bound some … unfortunate but nevertheless very strict laws. Joshua and I cannot intervene where blood has not been spilled. And this incident with Uriel did not happen until Joshua was forced out of the dojo.”

“It ain't strictly Josh's dojo, I take it?” asked Bobby.

“No. As with anything, it takes money to run a training facility. The institution has always been run by a board of directors, although, as you will understand, their names are not widely known. They all consider themselves legitimate businessmen, and pillars of the community.”

“Well why doesn't someone go tell the pillars of the community what's happening?” asked Dean.

“Sure, kid, you're gonna go stomp in and tell 'em their dojo's been invaded by a bunch of fallen angels?” asked Bobby.

“We gotta do something, Bobby,” said Dean.

“So, you think they're after Cas to convert him, Balthazar?” asked Sam.

“That would be my guess,” said Balthazar.

“Well they can't fucking have him!” said Dean, who emphasized the sentiment by leaping to his feet. “We're gonna keep him here, and we'll slice any bastard who comes near!”

“You won’t have to,” said Gabriel, “because I’ll slice them first.”

“Balthazar, is there a way to keep angels off your back same way as you do demons and other little petty stuff?” Bobby asked him.

“That's right, we're all gonna get badass demon tattoos,” said Dean.

“We are?” asked Sam.

“Sammy, try and keep up.”

“Can I get a demon tattoo too?” asked Gabriel.

“Not if you eat the last damn cinnamon roll,” said Bobby.

“I can give you a warding mark, if you like, Castiel,” said Balthazar. “I believe I am recharged after last night. It will have limited effectiveness. You can still be taken over, but the entity will need to be granted your permission first.”

“I think you should do it, Cas,” Dean told him. 

Cas looked over at Gabriel, who nodded. “All right,” said Cas, and Balthazar motioned to him to pull up his shirt. 

“This might sting a little,” Balthazar warned. He laid a hand over Cas's shoulder blade and concentrated for a moment.

“Ouch,” said Cas. Balthazar took his hand away, and Cas stretched his shoulders. There was now a red mark, like a brand, just over his shoulder blade.

“That looks familiar,” said Dean. 

Cas craned his neck, but was unable to see. Balthazar placed his hand on the table, and the mark appeared there as well. 

“I hope that comes off,” said Bobby.

“Sorry,” said Balthazar as Bobby fumed at wanton property destruction.

“Dean, isn't that the mark from Crowley's office?”

“Hey, yeah, he's got one of these on his floor.”

“He also has similar marks on his flask. And he wears another on his lapel.”

“Paranoid bastard,” said Dean. 

“Who the fuck is this Crowley?” asked Gabriel swinging his feet up to rest on the table. He was immediately slapped down by Bobby.

“He's the coach of the Kansas State fencing team,” Cas told him. 

“We'll I've never heard of him!” said Gabriel.

“The big question is, why would Crowley need anti-angel warding?” said Bobby.

“That is what you must needs find out,” said Balthazar. “Castiel, if you can prove that Uriel and others in Joshua's dojo are now possessed by angels, then I can move against them, especially if Uriel has taken blood.”

“Balthazar. Have you heard from Joshua?” asked Cas.

“No. Not for years. Not since I left in fact.”

“So … you don't know whether he's all right?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“You can't use your heavenly cell phone and text him or something?” asked Dean.

Balthazar smiled. “That unfortunately is not how it works. Joshua called me down. He contacts me. It doesn't work the other way around.”

Cas looked disappointed. “And what will you do now, Gabriel?” Balthazar asked.

“Sounds like I need to go back to the dojo and spy!” said Gabriel.

Cas was up out of his seat. “No. Gabriel. It's too dangerous!'

Gabriel waved a cinnamon roll derisively. “Tsk. I'm smarter than those guys. Which isn't saying much.”

“I don't like it,” Cas declared. “You're too smart for your own good.”

“Look, think of it this way, Cassie. They sent me away so they could pull their shit. That says to me they're scared of me, and not the other way around.”

“You'll call us if you need anything?” asked Bobby.

“Yeah, sure. And I'll still get to all your games, Shorty.”

“I haven't been shorter than you in years,” Cas crisply informed him. Gabriel tousled Cas's hair, and Cas would have smacked him over the head with a dinner plate had Bobby not barked at them both to quit fighting at his breakfast table. 

But despite his earlier high spirits, Cas seemed to sag as Gabriel and Balthazar departed. He waved sadly as the town car vanished, and Dean put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Don't tell me you're homesick, Cas?”

“What?” Castiel turned around towards Dean and appeared to think deeply on the subject for a moment. “I hadn't considered that possibility. But, it was my home. For as long as I remember.”

“Well, you got us now! And we're not bad.”

“No. You're not bad at all.”

“All right you boys,” said Bobby, who was shutting his cell phone with a decisive click. “We got a kitchen we gotta get clean.”

Dean sighed. “Aw, Bobby, it's Saturday! Can't we lie around and wallow for a while?”

“No sir. We're gonna have us another visitor.”

“Who?” grumbled Dean, who thought it couldn't be much of a visitor if they required clean up.

“You're old friend, Rufus Turner,” Bobby explained. 

“Oh, Rufus,” said Cas, who smiled.

“That's right, boy,” said Bobby, smiling warmly at Cas. “That man has barely been out of his own house in twenty years! This is an occasion.”

 

Sometime later, Dean was nursing painful case of dishpan hands, and Bobby and Rufus were hunched over the case of exotic-looking metal parts Rufus had brought over, snapping them together and pulling them apart and buffing with a soft cloth. Dean wandered over to where Cas was sitting hovering over them, apparently enthralled.

“These don't look like the guns the guys were using the other night,” Dean opined, picking up a bit with a barrel-shaped piece that spun around.

“You be careful with that, boy!” Bobby ordered, grabbing it back. 

“You ever actually fired off any of these, Rufus?” Dean asked.

“Good question!” Rufus told him brightly. “I've never had a reason to. But when your uncle told me what happened the other night … I couldn't resist the chance to experiment.”

“Nobody uses them anymore?” asked Dean, who couldn't resist picking up another gun bit, though he was careful to stand around on the other side of Bobby.

“There was thought at one time that guns would overtake swords! They were getting pretty common in the late nineteenth century.”

“Gun fighters!” gushed Dean. “I heard there were guys in the Old West who only used guns!”

Bobby snorted. “Oh hogwash. It's just legends.”

“It was true! They wrote songs!”

“Anyhow, Tesla made 'em all obsolete. And you're gonna see why.”

“I'm thinking this one,” said Rufus, laying an assembled firearm out on the table. “But we should take them out and test them first. None of these have been fired in a decade.” He picked up a small wooden box and slid down the lid. He plucked out a small, shiny slug and handed it to Dean.

Dean stared in fascination at the smooth, oblong metal object. “This is a bullet?”

“Yeah, before your friend Cas has had his way with it,” laughed Bobby. Castiel, who had been listening silently, smiled broadly.

“You wanna head outside?” asked Rufus.

“Yeah, just lemme grab one more thing. I think it's in the upstairs cabinet.” Bobby heaved himself up and made his way upstairs just as Sam came stampeding down the staircase.

“Hey, check this out!” he told Dean and Cas. “I just got off the phone with Jess, and Becky says-”

“Wait,” said Dean, waving his hands. “Wait. Jess and Becky are now BFFs?”

Sam shrugged and his cheeks flushed pink. “She never bugged Jess the way she bugs me. Anyway, we're gonna have the band at the next game!”

“What?” asked Dean. “That's awesome!”

“A … band?” asked Cas. “A musical band?”

“Yeah, Cas. The marching band comes to the game and then they play. They used to come all the time but they kind of gave up on us, like everybody else.”

“Why is there music at a fencing match?” Castiel looked so sweetly baffled, Dean couldn't resist putting an arm around his shoulders. 

“They play get everybody pumped. We do the chant, only to music.”

“I thought you didn't like the chant?” Cas asked suspiciously.

Dean was bouncing up and down on his toes. “I fucking love the chant! Rock – chalk – Jayhawk – KUUUUUUUUU!” He paused, abruptly half-remembering a strange dream.

Rufus sat back and sipped his coffee. “I need to get to one of you boys's games.”

“Hey, we could get you in, no problem,” Dean told him.

Rufus turned to Dean’s brother. “I heard you’re a pretty fair duelist too, Sam.”

Sam shook his head and waved his hands. “I played in high school. I leave the sharp objects stuff Dean now. Well, Dean and Cas.”

Rufus arched an eyebrow. “Once you pick up the sword, you never really lay it down.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You sound like John.”

Rufus peered up at Sam curiously. “You mean your father?”

“You know our dad?” Dean asked eagerly.

“Dean, everybody knows John Winchester.”

“All right, all right,” said Bobby, “let's get out there.” He came clattering down the stairs holding something that looked like a life vest, but Dean had no idea what it was. Bobby then had Sam and Dean grab some empty tin cans from the garbage, and they headed outside, where they set the cans along a fence post, and Rufus and then Bobby took turns shooting them down.

Dean cringed at the first sound of a gunshot. It was incredibly loud, and reminded him too damn much of the creepy guys in the alleyway. Cas, who had donned the odd vest, put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right, Dean?”

Dean waved him away. “Naw, I'm fine. What's up with the floatation device?”

“That there is a bullet-proof vest,” said Bobby.

“I won't need it,” said Cas, pulling at the neck. “And I find it restricting.”

“You're wearing it kid, and no arguments,” Bobby told him. Cas sighed and rolled his eyes, but nodded. Bobby stared at Cas. “I don't know, Rufus, maybe this was a stupid idea.”

Rufus tutted. “Bobby, he's wearing the vest. We can't pass up this opportunity!”

“Well, can you at least aim it away from him?”

“It's easiest if he aims it straight at me, Bobby,” said Cas. “Straight at the heart,” he added, pounding his chest with a fist.

“This was a bad idea,” said Bobby. He looked up, surprised to see Cas standing there, his hands on Bobby's shoulders. 

“I'll be fine, Bobby. I promise. On my honor.”

“Honor don't repel bullets!” Dean was surprised to see the old man had gotten slightly teary-eyed, which was very unusual for someone so unsentimental. “All right. We'll do one. Just one! And then we'll have a drink.”

“We'll have several drinks!” said Rufus. “I brought the Scotch!” He looked over towards Sam. “You got the camera?” Sam, who had been texting Jess and not paying a whole lot of attention to the proceedings, held up the video camera and nodded.

Rufus had Cas back up several paces. Cas ignited his sword and let it fall to his boot, where the crackling indicated his shielding was activated, though it wouldn’t do much good against a bullet. Dean caught the whiff of ozone from the humming blade.

Cas got into his ready position, awkwardly tugging at the vest. Then, as Bobby sweated and Sam calmly filmed, Rufus raised his gun. Dean had a sudden terrible realization that this was a very stupid idea and they all needed to go inside and have a few drinks and think it over when there was a terrible bang and a flash and a flick of metal, and then all was silent again.

Cas was frozen in place, his blade hot and humming.

“Got it,” said Sam, peering into the camera. 

“Good thing because we are _not_ doing that shit ever again!” said Bobby, hand over his heart.

“Damn!” said Rufus, peering over Sam's shoulder at the replay. He grabbed the camera from Sam and, after determining how to run the video on slow, Dean watched the frame-by-frame with utter fascination. The gun quivered and fired, and you could see the silvery projectile hurtling towards Cas. And then the flash of the blade, flicking in the blink of an eye, even in slow motion, and it was all over.

Cas, who had been calmly puttering around looking for something on the ground, came over and dropped something in Rufus's hand. 

“Shit! My bullet!” said Rufus, rapturously holding up the two halves, hot in his palm. 

“How the hell do you practice that?” asked Bobby, but Cas only grinned. He extricated himself from the bullet-proof vest and handed it back to Bobby. 

“That's like magic,” said Dean. “I mean, who can do that?”

“It was a street fighter trick,” said Rufus. He held up the gun. “That’s why you don’t see these things any more, unless they’re hanging on somebody’s wall.”

“Uh, Rufus?” said Dean.

“Yeah?”

“Before you put it away, can I try firing the gun?”

It took a couple of tries, but Dean managed to shoot a couple of cans off a fence post. He had to admit, it was archaic, but kind of cool. He liked the little kick when he squeezed the trigger. “You wanna try Cas?”

The street fighter wrinkled his nose. “It's dishonorable!”

“Now,” said Bobby. “Nothing dishonorable about an inanimate object. The dishonor is in how you use it.”

“I don't care to fire a gun, no,” Cas persisted, glaring at the firearm as if it were sour milk.

“You wanna go in for that drink?” asked Rufus.

“I could use one,” said Bobby.

“Rufus,” Cas began shyly. He absent-mindedly let his sword tap on his ankle, even though the blade was turned off.

“Yeah?”

“Um. Have you made any progress in your search....”

“You mean for your parents? Yeah, actually. Frank and I, we think we have a few leads. Hasn't been anything worth mentioning, but yeah, don't worry. We're on the case.”

“Thank you.”

Sam, who had hopped back up to perch on a junker car, glanced up from his phone and laughed bitterly. “And while you're on it, maybe you could look for our father.”

Frank stared at him, puzzled. He turned to Bobby. “Is John Winchester in trouble?”

“No,” Bobby told him. “And as a matter of fact, Sam, I talked to your father not too long ago.”

“Really?” asked Dean. “What did he say?”

“What does he ever say?” grumbled Sam, stabbing at the buttons on his phone.

Bobby folded his arms. “Well, I told him the team's been winning a few games, and suggested he might be inclined to come watch his son play.”

“You think he would?” asked Dean.

“No, Dean,” snapped Sam. “Why do you always get your hopes up? That old bastard is not gonna come to a game.”

“Samuel Winchester,” said Bobby. “I will not hear you speak that way about your father!”

Sam got a murderous gleam in his eye, but at that moment, his phone rang, and, after a moment's hesitation, he picked it up. “Hey Jess. No, we're still here at Uncle Bobby's. It's a long story.... What? Aw, crap! Yeah, I'll tell Dean. Don't worry.”

“Tell me what?” asked Dean.

Sam glanced between Dean and Cas. “There's trouble. Gordon's quit the team.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Not again. Did he and Jo break up?”

“It's not that. It’s much worse. He's transferring to Kansas State. He's gonna play for Crowley!”

There was a moment of shocked silence.

Dean threw up his hands. “Son of a bitch! We've got a game in three days. How the hell could he do this?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the fencing team gets a new player, Cas learns to drive stick, and we face the Horned Frogs.

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 10 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** This chapter: NC-17  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, no beta. _This chapter contains sexual situations and is NSFW._  
 **Word Count:** 80,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter, the fencing team gets a new player, Cas learns to drive stick, and we face the Horned Frogs.

 

“Come on, Gordo.”

“Lay off, Benny,” groused Gordon, slapping away the big man's hand from his shoulder.

“This is lame!” said Ash.

Gordon regarded his teammates, who had just hauled his unwilling ass down to the court for one last round of reminding him why he was leaving.

“C'mon, man,” said Benny. “Is it Jo again? Because she'll come around.”

Gordon's scowl only intensified and the mention of his eternally on-and-off girlfriend. “No, it's not Jo! Dammit. I'm not doing this for her. For once I'm doing something for _me_. I'm not playing to my potential.” Benny and Ash exchanged a glance. It didn't sound like their friend Gordon. It sounded like he was repeating a line he'd heard from someone else.

“Your potential? And you're gonna do that under Crowley?” Dean snapped as he, Sam and Cas strode in.

Gordon glared defiantly at Dean. “Yes, Dean. For your information, he's got a training regime already in mind. We talked a long time.”

“But Crowley doesn't even coach, man,” said Sam. “You know he leaves it to Alastair.”

“He has a different role, he's more like … an overseer.” Gordon cringed at his own lame analogy.

“An overseer?” asked Dean. “So, you guys are slaves?”

Gordon rounded on Dean. “No, that's not what I meant. Don't twist my words.”

“They're Crowley's words, plain as day,” said Benny. “And they don't need to twist 'em. They come out bent.”

“You are aware that we have evidence the players on Crowley's team all use performance enhancements?” Cas asked quietly.

“He means they're juicing,” Dean translated.

Gordon was staring Dean down. “And what exactly is wrong with that?”

Dean started to answer, but Cas cut him off. “You mean besides the fact that the long-term effects have not been well documented and may well be deleterious? In the short term, most if not all of those agents are known to cause alterations of the pituitary hormonal axis resulting in decreased production of sexual hormones...”

Gordon's expression turned from sour to confused.

“He means your nads will shrivel,” Ash told Gordon with a snicker.

“...as well as adverse effect on liver functionality and increases in plasma cholesterol, and increase aggressive behavior. Plus, they make you slower.” Cas stepped closer to Gordon, into his space. “And stupider.”

Gordon leaned forward. Both put hands towards their weapons.

“Whoa whoa whoa! Okay, hey, wait,” said Dean, stepping quickly between them. “I don't want a duel, especially when I'm not entirely sure what it's about.”

“I'm going,” said Gordon, not taking his eyes off Cas. “It's already a done deal.” He looked at Benny and Ash. “If these two hadn't dragged me down here, I'd already be on my way.”

“Gordon!” The voice came from the stands, where Jo had just come in along with Jess and Pamela. 

Gordon looked up at her. For a moment – just a moment – Dean thought Gordon was changing his mind. His face, usually so arrogant, was a lined in regret. But instead he just turned and stalked out the door. It shut with a distinct, and final, slam.

“Well, there goes the Rebellion's last hope,” sighed Meg, who had somehow shown up as well.

“We're winning, and now we can even field a damn team?” cursed Benny.

“Okay, that's it, where's the sword cabinet?” Sam stalked over and yanked it open. 

“You gonna stop him that way?” asked Benny. 

“No,” said Sam, throwing down his bag and grabbing a sword. “We're down a man. If he's off, I'm playing.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. “Holy shit balls, Sammy!” said Ash. “My fucking hero!”

“All right, hold it a minute” said Dean. “I thought you said you were off. For good. We agreed, after high school.”

“Screw it,” said Sam, who threw a couple of moves with a sword, frowned, and then replaced it in the rack. 

Dean crossed his arms, baffled by this brotherly intransigence. “You sure about this, Sammy? You and Dad argued for a week. The kitchen wall still has that hole you punched!”

“I'm sure,” said Sam. “I have never been more sure.”

“Jess?” pleaded Dean. “Talk some sense into my brother.”

Jess grinned at Dean. “I only talk him out of stupid stuff.”

Dean held up his arms in exasperation. “And this isn't stupid? Sam! You have _three days_ to practice.”

“So I'm a little rusty,” said Sam, replacing another blade. Cas, who had wandered over to the cabinet, fetched down another blade and handed it over to Sam. Sam tried a couple of moves and broke out into a grin. “Yeah, this works. Thanks Cas.”

“You have an excellent reach, Sam,” said Cas.

“Thanks!”

“Cas!” said Dean. “Talk to Sam. You're my last hope.”

“I thought Meg said Gordon was the last hope,” cracked Ash, prompting an actual, if fleeting, smile from Meg.

“I'm your last hope!” said Sam, who was brought up short when he swung wild and found himself parried by Cas, using not a sword, but just his index and middle fingers. “Uh.”

“He hasn't fenced since high school, Cas,” said Dean.

“He has obvious deficits,” said Cas. “As certain of them are similar to your shortcomings, I think they are more the result of your secondary school sensei's failings as a trainer. 

“My shortcomings?” wailed Dean, his voice breaking.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Cas, if you train me, will you at least promise to use a sword and not just your fingers? Because, damn.”

“My apologies,” said Cas, withdrawing his hand.

“Don't you have a midterm?” asked Dean, who knew full well he was now grasping at straws. Sammy had taken debate classes, the little shit.

“I passed my last midterm.” Sam inclined his head. “I have an essay due.”

“We can do the essay!” Charlie shouted down from the stands.

“You don't even know what class!” Dean shouted back.

“What class?”

“Poly sci 102!” said Sam.

“We got it.” Charlie and Pamela hunched over the laptop.

Dean watched with a growing sense of inevitability as Cas led his brother off to one of the mats and they began to drill. “We're just up against the Horned Frogs next, brother. Ain't like it's a mob of guys with guns,” Benny told him softly. 

“You heard about that?”

For once, Benny looked serious. “We all of us heard.”

“And you're still here?”

Benny spread out his arms. “Look at me! I'm still here. Everyone but Gordo is still here. Didn't see that one coming, or we woulda warned you.”

“It's not your fault, Benny.”

“Gordo's a moody son of gun. Hard to get a fix on. He'll get to perseverating about his sister.”

Dean turned and stared at Benny. “You think that's what it is? Not Jo?”

Benny scowled and nodded. “If I was a bettin' man, I'd say he _wants_ to get juiced up. Wants to go all street fighter and go look for her.”

“Are his people Freedmen?” asked Dean, who was surprised he didn't know the answer.

Benny laughed. “His daddy's a chemist and his mama's a CPA.”

“So, no.” Benny nodded sadly, and went off to spar with Ash.

Dean was lost in thought. He was only shaken from his reverie some time later when Coach Henricksen, cigarette dangling from his lips, slapped him on the shoulder. “What's the word, Winchester? Why is Charlie up in the stands with a laptop?”

“She's working on Sam's Poli Sci essay.”

“Oh. All right. Carry on,” said the coach, turning to go.

“Wait, is that all you wanna know?” asked Dean.

“I gotta get ready. I'm seeing Ellen tonight.”

Dean goggled. “You mean, _seeing_ seeing?”

“I know you're slow, Dean, but I didn't think you were stupid.”

Dean glared at the authority figure for his obvious dereliction of duty. “And you're not wondering-”

“Why Gordon missed my practice and your brother is making an ass of himself?” He smirked over to where Sam, who had just been walloped by Cas, was sitting on his rump once again. “I'm sure in the fullness of time, all will be revealed, and all that zen crap.”

Dean hurried over to where Cas had been clobbering his little brother, arriving just as Cas was helping Sam to his feet.

“Sammy-”

Sam looked truly blissed out. “This is fun, Dean! I'd forgotten how much I liked this stupid sport.”

“Your brother is doing very well!” Cas assured him. “Although I wouldn't be surprised if he has some sore muscles tomorrow. I might recommend a warm bath.”

“I might do that. Um. I'm staying over at Jess's tonight,” Sam told Dean.

Dean grinned. “Are her parents gonna be around?”

“Yeah. It's family game night.”

“I'm sorry,” said Dean, as it meant his brother would probably be bathing alone. As well as playing Monopoly with a bunch of cops.

 

“C'mon Cas. I wanna hit the road before it's dark.”

Cas hurried after Dean as they headed towards the parking lot. He looked worried. “Will your brother be … all right? I mean, staying at the Moore's tonight? We're still not sure if there are more of those men abroad.”

Dean smiled broadly. “Well, Jess’s dad, Mr. Moore, is a cop.”

“And her mother?”

“Mrs. Moore … is a cop. And her older brothers are cops. And her uncles on her dad's side are cops.”

“And her uncles on her maternal side?”

“Firemen. Her mom was a black sheep.” 

“That's interesting, Dean.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “But some of the things you and your brother did in past years? For the underground railroad?”

“Yeah. Not strictly legal,” laughed Dean as they reached the car. “In fact, not legal in any way, shape or form. Sammy wanted to turn over a new leaf when he started college, and as far as I could tell, Uncle Bobby was all for it. He said there might as well be one respectable person in the Winchester family line. Sam and my dad had a pretty bad argument when Sammy said he wasn't going to continue with fencing. Thought they were gonna kill each other this time.” Dean shuddered with the memory. “But then my dad took off. It's what he does.” He shrugged and got into the car, somewhat carelessly tossing his sidearm in the back. Cas carefully set his scabbard at his feet and got in the passenger side.

“So your father is … away? A lot?” asked Cas cautiously after they had driven for a while.

“Yeah. That's a long story. See, our families – there's the Campbells one one side, and the Winchesters on the other – they both have histories of trouble making. Legend has it a couple of Campbell cousins rode with John Brown. I prefer to believe that legend! But I guess we're kind of like Coach Henricksen's family: Dad originally wanted nothing to do with all that. He joined the army and then married Mom. But it all went south when Mom died. I mean, you know Ash and all his theories?”

“Some of them are correct.”

“Well, yeah, maybe. Anyway, Dad's gotten like that. Only more so. He got it in his head that mom's death was part of a conspiracy. Someone called Old Yellow Eyes. So he was off after one conspiracy after the other, used to leave me and Sammy alone for a longer and longer time. Finally one day Uncle Bobby pulls up with his pickup truck, packs us up and moves us out to his place.”

“Have you seen your father since then?”

“Occasionally. He and Sam don't get along too well lately, so it's almost better that he stays scarce.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

Soon it was time for Cas to hop out and open the gate, which, to the boys's surprise, was padlocked. They found the reason as soon as they were inside: Bobby had stuck a note on the fridge to the effect that he was out for the evening.

“He's playing cards over at Jody Mills's place,” said Dean. “She's the local sheriff.”

Cas looked intrigued. “Bobby is friends with the local sheriff?”

'Yeah, funny story. I'll have him tell it some time. They met when she arrested him, and they just hit it off. But it looks like we need to make sure the property is locked up tight. And more important, we're fending for ourselves for dinner.”

“That's no problem!” said Cas. “I could make some stew...”

“Aw, come on, Cas, you're always cooking for us. Why don't I make something? I grill a pretty mean burger!”

Cas smiled. “Should I check the perimeter?”

“Yeah, sure.”

As it turned out, Dean was still making a mess of the kitchen when Cas returned, so he reluctantly accepted Cas's offer to help with preparation, even though this resulted in more vegetables than he usually let come near his burgers. But in the end Cas persuaded him to load his burger with a big beefsteak tomato and thin sliced red onions and even a leaf of fresh lettuce and finished with a big dollop of Cas's favorite ranch dressing, and Dean had to concede that it was sort of not bad. 

Dean finally pushed himself back from the table after his second helping of ice cream to declare that this was a very satisfactory meal indeed. “Hey, you know what?”

“What?” asked Cas. As it turns out, Dean's idea of preparing a healthy side dish was an opening a bag of potato chips. Cas had decided that he liked potato chips almost as much as French fries, but that they weren't very good dipped in ranch dressing.

“I think it's still light enough, you want a driving lesson?”

Cas dropped his potato chip. 

Dean wouldn't countenance a student driver getting near his beloved Impala, and besides Bobby had dictated they learn on a stick shift, so he picked an old, battered Toyota Corolla to start out with. Cas, as an athlete, was well coordinated and had lightning quick reaction time, but at first seemed too nervous to do much besides sweat. But gradually Dean got him calmed down enough to talk over the principles of the clutch pedal, and, after a couple of harrowing near misses, Cas managed to make it around a couple of corners without dropping the transmission. 

Dean then insisted on a brief primer on auto mechanics, so, as it was getting darker, he hung one of Bobby's trouble lights on the hood, and introduced Cas to the mystery that was the Impala's internal combustion engine. 

“Do you service on this car yourself, Dean?” asked Cas as he leaned on the fender. 

“I rebuilt her! I know every bolt.” He got a funny look on his face. “It was actually my dad's car. Originally. One of the few things I guess we got in common.”

Cas's face was in the shadows, so Dean couldn't tell his reaction. Dean wondered if the talk of family tonight was making his friend wistful. “Anyway, you wanna get in and clean up the kitchen before Bobby comes back and has a fit?”

Cas ended up washing and Dean rinsing and stacking things in the drain. “I've told Bobby he needs a damn dishwasher,” Dean muttered.

“I find washing dishes calming,” said Cas.

“You would. So, you and your brothers, spent a lot of time in the kitchen, I take it?”

Cas's features traced a small, shy smile. “Yes. It was a good place to congregate. We couldn't stay in the training room all day. And the dormitories were cramped. And some of our brothers....” He trailed off, as if trying to decide how to phrase his sentiment. “Well, they wanted privacy. Those who, um, formed bonds. If you know what I mean?”

Dean didn't know at first, but it took him only a few seconds. “Oh. So, the action wasn't all at the brothels?” 

Cas shrugged. His face rippled through half a dozen emotions. “Dean, I have a confession.”

Dean dropped a plate in the drain and leaned against the counter, having no idea what was coming next. “Yeah?”

“After Gabriel took me the first time, I began to visit the brothels. It was a tradition after a bout, especially after a victory. It was … expected?”

“All right. You said you just sat and talked with the girls at first?”

Cas's voice was barely above a whisper. “Dean. That's all I _ever_ did, actually.”

“Wait. You didn't.... Oh.”

“We would talk. Or play cards. They didn't mind. The girls were all nice. They were all very nice.”

Dean wondered if he should pry, but decided since Cas had started it.... “Um, so what was the issue? You, maybe didn't want a _girl_?”

Cas shook his head. “It wasn't that … specifically. I don't know. It just seemed like the act was somewhat.... It seems like a sacred thing. I'm not explaining myself well.”

“No, that's cool, Cas.”

His eyes were pleading. “Please don't laugh. I haven't even told Gabriel about this.”

“No, man. I see what you mean. You want it with somebody special, right?”

Cas nodded, a picture of perfect earnestness. Dean smiled. “You promised not to laugh!” Cas chided.

“I'm not laughing. Cas. It's nice. It's real … old fashioned. Anyway, it's not something to be ashamed of.” Cas was staring at the floor, thoroughly abashed. “And hey, look. You told me something, I'll tell you something. And it's completely okay if you laugh. All right? Come on!” Dean grinned and led Cas upstairs to his bedroom. He went to sit over on his bed and pulled something out of the nightstand. “I had this up, until you got here. Both Sam and Bobby gave me hell. But I liked it. Anyway,” Dean said, nervously handing a much-folded paper over to Cas.

Cas, after looking curiously at Dean, carefully unfolded the paper, and gasped at what he saw. “Is this me?”

“It was from one of Rufus's magazines. I thought it was so … awesome. I couldn't believe you could do that. This was before I knew you. I mean, knew you well. I still don’t believe I know somebody like that.”

To Dean's surprise, Castiel crossed the room sat down on his cot, facing the wall, his back to Dean. His hand was now tracing over the picture, his thoughts unreadable. He unfolded the tape on the top edge of the magazine page and stuck it up on the wall in front of him. Concerned, Dean went to sit beside him.

“You're- You're really amazing,” said Dean, running a hand over the photo.

“My signature move,” murmured Cas. His voice was barely above a whisper. Dean leaned closer to hear. “My mother and father.... You know I never knew them. Do you think...?”

Cas was quiet for a while. “What, Cas?” Dean gently prompted.

“If they knew.... If they saw me.... Do you think they would have still...?” His hand dropped down to his lap, and he wilted.

“Cas.” Dean gripped his shoulders and pulled him around. “Look, I know family stuff. You don't know why your parents left. Maybe they died. Maybe.... We'll never know. But that wasn't about you, it was about _them_. You're a freaking incredible person, Cas. Incredible. Whether you're jumping on the walls, or coaching my baby brother. I'm glad you're here with me. I'm so lucky. I'm just so lucky. I've got you.”

Cas put a tentative hand out to touch Dean's face, tracing with great care two slender fingers down the side of his cheek. The eyes that could burn through you shown with the refracted pooling of tears. Dean found it hard to reconcile the feral creature crashing through in the photograph with this fragile being now trembling beside him. He leaned forward, just a fraction, just enough to bring his forehead to gently press on Castiel's, holding a hand in back of his head, threading through the tangled hair back there. And they sat that way for what may have been a minute or five minutes or just a breath.

And then they were kissing, and it was so sweet and soft and slow, and Dean never did figure out who started it, it just all felt so right, and Dean thought maybe he could just sit here and kiss for a few more hours. He leaned over a fraction and his hand came down on Cas's tense thigh. He felt the muscles quiver like a bowstring, and slid his hand up and up and up further, and-

Cas emitted a whoop as they both found themselves spilled over flat on their asses, the wheeled cot having popped out from beneath them when Cas moved. Cas's face was a mask of surprise and betrayal.

Dean hooted, his body shaking. “Look at us, we're supposed to be a couple of athletes.” Cas smiled shyly, and Dean hauled him up by the shirt. “Come on. Bed. It's more stable,” he laughed. He sat down hard on the end of his bed, pulling Cas up beside him. To his surprise, Cas scooted over to straddle his lap, and began kissing him, more ardently this time. Dean held on and kissed back, and it was really sexy and nice. He pushed his friend back. “Cas, you done this before?” he asked.

Castiel flashed a guilty look. “Uh. No.”

“That's okay. That's fine. You sure you want to-”

“YES!”

“Okay, good,” said Dean, going to pull off Cas's shirt as he was suddenly feeling more skin was needed. He brushed his hands up the wiry muscle. “We can take it slow.” At which point Cas shoved him – hard – into the mattress. “Or not! Oh boy....”

Dean had never seen Cas like this. He had seen him naked before, or nearly so: sharing a small cramped bedroom and equally tiny bathroom would do that. But he was used to the cool customer whose every movement was sharp and precise as a blade. But this … it was like the first few minutes of the driving lesson, where Cas was everywhere and nowhere, here mouthing Dean's nipple and there sending a hand down into his waistband. Clumsy fingers started fumbling with the clasp on his jeans as if it was the most difficult problem in the universe.

“I got it. I got it,” Dean told him, deftly clicking the snap and then wriggling partway out of his jeans and boxers. “Hey, wait a second,” he chided as Cas crawled on top of him before he'd gotten them quite kicked off. Dean let out a moan as, pinned down by Cas's weight and a tangle of clothes, Cas rubbed his entire body against him, one hard cock stroking another. He felt another moan escape his throat, grateful that they were alone in the house. He stayed like that for while, just feeling the delicious friction, letting it spread warmth through his body. Cas's skin: how the hell did it manage to stay so soft. 

Cas ground his hips, and Dean arched and gasped. He needed to do something.

He somehow extracted his ankles from his pants, and abruptly shifted his weight, tangling his legs in Cas's so he was now on top of Cas, trapping the street fighter's hands up above his head. He paused and stared down triumphantly at Cas, whose eyes had grown wide in surprise beneath tangled hair. Dean thought he looked the same way back when the whole team had taken him on, and Dean had finally worn him down and cut his hair. His Cupid's bow mouth formed a perfect circle, and Dean ducked his head down. “Wrestling team. I lettered,” he whispered in Cas's ear, and the mouth shaped up in a small smile.

“Let me show you something.” Releasing Cas's wrists, Dean went in for another burning kiss, trailing his hand down between them, tracing the lovely mound of Cas's pectoral muscles, easing down his flat stomach, tickling the fine small hairs that led down to his groin. Arching his body up, he gently grabbed both his dick and Cas's and, as Cas let out a very pleasing little whine, began to stroke them together. He felt Cas's hands scrabble to grip his back, fingernails digging into his skin as he increased the pace, watched his eyes flutter shut, the lashes long and dark against pale skin. Cas's mouth was open making strangled noises. Dean felt the burning in his groin, felt the naked want. He would not be satisfied until he'd chased away all street fighter cool and turn Cas into a begging, pleading wreck beneath him. 

“Dean....”

His name came out as a delightfully strangled gasp. Cas was close, he just needed to push him over the edge. “You're so beautiful,” Dean murmured. And then Cas bucked and gasped and stiffened and Dean felt the warm sticky cum spread on his hand. 

Dean lowered himself into another long slow kiss, sliding their bodies together, luxuriating in the sticky feeling on his belly. “Mmmm. So beautiful,” he whispered, kissing along Cas's hairline. “And all mine.”

“Dean.” Cas was holding his face, sweating, pupils wide as dinner plates, hair stuck here and there and everywhere catching his breath. It seemed to be all he could say. _I've scrambled his brain,_ Dean thought smugly. He ground into him a couple strokes, grunting with pleasure and want.

“What about you, Dean?” Cas managed to croak.

Dean smiled. He pulled up Cas's hand and spit into it, rubbing it around the palm. And then he pulled it down so it encircled his still red, engorged cock. “Like this. Careful. Just hold me.” Cas nodded and Dean slowly began to stroke again, fucking into Cas's hand. Cas was wildly concentrating, adjusting his grip as Dean pushed himself up and down. The hand gripped tighter, and Dean hitched his body faster. And then Cas's other hand came around, caressing the globe of his ass. Dean sighed and continued, stroking and stroking as Cas's hand slid around between his ass cheeks. Two fingers found his asshole and started to push inside. 

Dean let out a surprised cry. He lost it right there as every drop of blood in his body raced to his groin. He shot out, marking Cas's stomach.

He bucked again, once, twice, and then huffed and let himself smash down into Cas's body, feeling loopy and satisfied and all flavors of surprised. Cas was stroking a hand up and down his back, and humming a funny little satisfied hum.

“Where did you learn that?” Dean finally rasped. “I thought you were virgin?”

Cas only smiled mysteriously. 

“What?”

Cas actually blushed. “Well, when I used to go to the brothel? I spent a lot of time talking to the girls....”

Dean laughed and they kissed. “You're gonna kill me,” Dean told him. “Damn, you're gonna kill me.”

“I hope not. Then we couldn't have more sex.” His brow wrinkled. “Isn't it supposed to last longer?”

Dean laughed again. “It takes a while. Don't worry. We'll practice. We'll get lots of practice.” He pushed up, resting on Cas's chest, listening. “I don't think Bobby's coming back, let's hit the showers.”

“Together?” 

Dean grinned. “Come on.”

They ended up using up all Bobby's hot water. And then Dean wouldn't let Cas don his pajamas, so they slept that way that night, all tangled around one another, smelling of soap and warmth and contentment.

If Dean dreamt that night, of terrible black-eyed beings and winged saviors, he didn't remember.

 

“I’ve gotta head to class,” said Dean as he pulled the car into one of the campus parking lots the next morning. “You?”

Cas was squinting at his cell phone. “I am actually headed to a practice session with your brother.”

Dean broke out in a grin. “He’s sure dedicated.”

“He has a great deal of natural facility with the sport, although he has issues with his sense of balance.”

“That’s my Sammy.” Dean hesitated, his hand on the door, looking at Cas for a moment, and then they leaned together and kissed. And then they kissed some more, and then some more, and then finally Dean pushed Cas away and said, “Okay, I think we better stop, before we can’t stop.”

Cas just gave a sly little grin and slipped out the door. Dean sat there for a moment longer. “Damn,” he said. And giving a little, “What did I get myself into?” look, he departed.

 

Sam was sitting on his ass. Again. As Cas had just tripped him. Again.

“You know,” Sam said, not attempting to stand, “I don’t think that move was strictly legal.”

“You need to be more aware of your center of balance, Sam.”

“That doesn’t mean you can go tripping people!” Sam sighed, ignoring Cas’s offered hand, and crossed his long legs. A frown creased his brow. “You really think I’m gonna be ready for the game?”

“You are already more than ready,” said Cas.

“Seriously?”

“As I was just telling your brother, you have a knack for this sport.” Cas hunkered down so he was more at Sam’s eye level. “You appear to have a poor body sense however. Can you tell me, did you experience a growth spurt in recent times?”

“My last year of high school! I mean, I was always big for my age, but it was like a rocket. Whoosh!”

“I experienced something similar. I was small for my age. They had expected me to fight in the flyweight division, like Gabriel. But then I rapidly grew tall. Unfortunately, I wasn’t large enough for the heavyweight class. That’s part of the reason they wanted me to use performance enhancing drugs.”

“But you didn’t?”

Cas tilted his head and stared off into the distance. “No. Instead, I became something quite different. Something new.”

“So, is this my zen wisdom for the day?”

Cas suddenly lit up. “I am taking a class in Buddhist philosophy! I’m finding it quite enlightening.”

Sam regarded Cas. He was definitely something different. “So, I’m gonna be okay?”

“You should do exceedingly well. If you remember not to give your opponent an opening.” Cas stood and once again extended a hand.

“Okay, but dude? No more tripping this morning? My butt aches.”

“All right.” Sam took his hand and stood.

“Hey, Sam! Cas!” yelled Charlie from up in the stands. “I got your essay,” she added, waving a thumb drive.

“Charlie, I could kiss you!” said Sam.

“Could I kiss Jess instead?” she asked. “Your girlfriend is hot.”

Sam laughed and sauntered over to his book bag and dragged out his laptop. “Yeah, Dean says she’s out of my league. Could you upload it?”

Charlie opened the computer and plugged in the drive and transferred the file. “Hey, why are you poking around the Niveus Pharma site?”

“Oh, that,” said Sam. “They manufacture this performance enhancing drug we’re interested in. But it’s really difficult getting information. It’s locked down pretty tight.”

“They’re owned by SucroCorp. Did you know that?”

Sam and Cas looked at each other. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, one of my friends hacked into their web site a couple weeks ago. He wrote, ‘Dick is a wad’ all over the site. You know, Dick Roman, their CEO dude?” 

“I think I’ve seen him on TV. Is that the same guy?”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “The cheesy dude? Yeah. He’s so annoying.”

Sam leaned closer. “Look, Charlie, do you think your, uh, 'friend' could hack into the site again?”

“What do you need?”

“We’re looking for the distribution network for a drug called PerFormaT.”

Charlie grinned. “Can do. But this is gonna cost you.”

“Cost me what?”

“I dunno. Date with Jess? Dean’s right, she’s out of your league.”

“Charlie, are you gonna be a Becky?”

“A what?”

 

To Dean’s surprise and delight, Bobby insisted on attending the next game. “If both my boys are determined to end up as shishkebab, I guess I oughta be around to pick up the pieces.” He was, along with everyone else, shouting the Gregorian-like rock chalk chant along with a real live marching band, who filled one end of the stadium with crimson and blue. And then everyone stood for the Alma Mater.

Jess was swaying there in the stands, of course, along with half of the Lawrence police force, and a rather decent portion of its first responders, a surprising proportion of whom happened to be Moore, Moore in-laws or Moore cousins. 

“I had better not fuck up, huh?” said Sam, staring from his place at the sidelines up at the Moore-filled stands as the singing finally halted and his first duel was announced.

“This city better not have a fire,” said Dean. “Or a car accident. Or a bank robbery. Or any parking violations.”

‘You will be fine, Sam,” Cas told him. “Just remember your center. Um, _Grasshopper_.”

Sam grinned and strode out into the court. Dean laughed and Cas turned to him, saying sincerely, “Sam wanted me to call him that.”

“Yeah, I know why.” Cas still looked perplexed, so Dean told him, “It’s okay, it means he thinks you’re full of martial arts wisdom.”

“What the blazes does Sam think he’s doing out there?” Benny demanded as Sam stopped for a moment at the side of the mat, yanked up one heel, and sent another long arm stretched out. “He looks like an overgrown crane.”

“I gave him some yoga poses. For balance,” Cas explained.

“Sam’s doing freaking yoga now?” Benny wailed.

“If it can get us a win, I’ll go out and quack like a duck!” Dean vowed. 

“Is your brother ready?” asked Henricksen, who had nervously paced down and now sat in Sam’s vacated seat. He looked badly nicotine-deprived.

“Sam will be fine. Cas has been practicing with him.”

“You showed him those crazy moves, Singer?” Henricksen asked, pointing to Sam, who was still making a big production out of stretching.

Cas blinked at him for a moment, unfamiliar with his brand new last name. At last he responded, “Yes! I taught him the crazy moves.”

“Good. His opponent is completely freaked out now.” The boys directed their attention out to the field, where indeed Sam’s opponent on the Horned Frogs team looked totally baffled at Sam’s elaborate gyrations. They lined up, and Sam was able to quickly rack up the first Jayhawks win of the night.

Sam rushed back to the bench, where he was basically dancing. “I’m pumped! I’m so pumped.”

“Sammy!” whispered Dean.

“Yeah.”

“Turn off your damn sword before we get a penalty.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Sam looked around and, with a guilty expression, quickly clicked off the electrified blade. 

Fortunately for Sam and his team, none of the officials seemed to have witnessed his gaffe. Unfortunately, the rest of the match did not go as smoothly as Sam’s first duel. Pamela still didn’t feel confident enough to suit up, so Charlie went in an inevitably lost. But Ash also fell short, and, surprisingly, Dean lost on points, for which he spent the rest of the match cursing himself. Cas thought to offer some pointers, but was persuaded by Benny to keep this knowledge to himself for the present time.

It all came down to Cas’s duel, which, to make things more dramatic, was the last one of the match. “It’s all down to you, Cas,” Dean told him.

“Yes, I’m aware of that, Dean,” Cas told him serenely. 

“Doesn’t anything make you sweat?”

Cas leaned over close. “Nothing but you.” And with a smug smile, Cas strode out to the mat. 

Dean felt himself punched in the shoulder. “Dude,” said Sam, which served as both a statement and an inquiry.

“Later,” said Dean, brushing off his brother so he could concentrated on worrying himself sick over Cas. They’d matched him with a big guy again, and Dean was left speculating whether some of the guys on this team were doping. This was a guy with muscles on his muscles. And no neck. Dean wondered not for the first time why opposing coaches always tried to counter Cas’s elegant, swift style with brawn.

There was a shout from the stands. “Rock! Chalk!”

And an answering, “Jayhawk!”

“KUUUUUUUUU!”

And then the band picked it up. “Rock! Chalk! Jayhawk!”

“KU!” shouted Dean, along with the rest of the bench. Cas, out on the field, flicked a small smile his way.

The entire stadium thundered now. “Rock! Chalk! Jayhalk! KUUUUUUUUU!” the last notes echoing as everyone held their breath.

“Rock chalk Jayhawk KU! Rock chalk Jayhawk KU! Rock chalk Jayhawk KU!”

And then there was nothing but the echo of the final note.

Dean was surprised to see that Cas didn't seem to be playing any mind games with his opponent this time. It was like watching a bullfight, the guy snorting and stamping, jazzed to get fighting. He imagined this one would be better suited for street fighting: how could he ever hold it together for formal dueling?

They lined up, and Dean could barely breathe. The duelists saluted the stands. This was the longest fight in the history of the world. 

The ref irritably signaled for silence. _“En garde. Pret. Allez.”_

And then....

It was over in an eyeblink, the TCU man enraged when the ref called it for Cas. The Horned Frog duelist grunted, and turned red.

Cas turned towards his bench. The TCU guy hadn't turned off his weapon though: just like Sammy. Only not so much like Sammy....

“CAS!” Dean was on his feet, screaming as the humming blade came down. And Cas was around, somehow parrying with a dead blade, and then there was a flash of bodies and swords and Dean was running over along with Henricksen and half the bench.

And Cas was there, knee on the guy's chest, and somehow, both blades raised, vengeful look in his eyes. 

“Cas! Cas,” Dean said again. And Henricksen had him up, and then Benny and some other big guy from the Frog bench were wrestling up the opponent and a ref was in his face screaming at him and Henricksen was shouting and there was so much shouting and Dean grabbed Cas by the arm and pulled him around.

“Are you okay? You're okay? Right? You're okay.”

Cas's attention slowly but surely came around to Dean, his expression softening suddenly to a sweet smile. He pulled Dean close and gave him a quick kiss, and Dean sort of blithered.

“I KNEW IT!” Jo was standing right in back of Dean. Of course the little spitfire had emptied the bench as soon as there was trouble. Dean didn't know what to say, but Jo turned halfway around to say, _I told you so_ , but then apparently realized Gordon wasn't beside her. There was no one to tell, and Dean felt a pinch on his own heart.

“Ew,” added Ash, who was standing to Jo's other side. She elbowed him.

“Okay. Wait. What?” asked a grinning Sam.

“Later, Sammy,” Dean told him. 

Dean wondered if Cas was regretting that Gabriel hadn’t shown up. He had warned them ahead of time. It was probably for the best, as Gabriel probably would have murdered the unlucky TSU player who’d tried to make a late hit on Cas. Dean turned to ask Cas, but realized his friend was no longer standing beside him. Dean looked across the court. Cas was over standing with Bobby and Coach Henricksen. Henricksen was saying something to Bobby, and Bobby got this funny expression, and then reached out and gripped Cas’s shoulder, radiating pride.

Dean blinked in surprise. Bobby was acting exactly like a … a _parent_. 

“What?” asked Sam.

“I told you, later.”

“No, I mean, why are you staring like that?” 

Dean gestured towards Bobby. “This is gonna sound petty as fuck, but Bobby couldn’t be bothered to come to our games? And now Cas is under our roof a couple weeks, and look.”

Sam looked philosophical. “Dean, we have a dad. He’s just an asshole.”

Dean rounded on Sam. “John isn’t an asshole! You just don’t know him.”

“Yeah, Dean. He didn’t exactly give me the chance, did he?”

“ _Does_ he. Does he, Sam. He’s not … dead,” Dean muttered.

Sam’s expression indicated he wasn’t certain about that. 

“Well, you boys are getting too damned big to hug, but I don’t give a shit,” said Bobby, pulling Dean in a great, back-slapping bear hug. He gestured for Sam, who enveloped the smaller man. “Damn, my back!” grumbled Bobby when the embrace broke. “All right, we’re headed to Harvelle’s, and the drinks are on me. You wanna ride in the pickup truck, boy?” he asked Cas, who hovered around, grinning madly.

“I would like to _drive_ the pickup truck. Dean showed me how to operate a manual transmission.”

“Huh. Is that true? You're driving stick?”

“We had a lesson, yeah,” said Dean.

“So now you’re the expert?” Bobby asked Cas suspiciously.

“Yes!”

To Dean’s astonishment, Bobby handed his set of keys over to Cas. “Well, let me strap on my crash helmet. You boys following along?”

“I guess so,” said Dean as Cas and Bobby departed. “Sammy. He is totally spoiling Cas!”

“Aw, Dean. Come on. He’s more excited about driving that stupid broken down truck than he was about the match.”

After making certain Jess was situated with a ride, and a funny whispered conversation Dean couldn’t hear, Sam at long last accompanied Dean in the Impala.

“All right, so, it's later,” said Sam, settling into the passenger seat.

“Oh, so that’s what the conspiring was about? It's twenty minutes later, Sammy.” Dean sighed and wrinkled his brow into an exasperated brother expression. He sighed. “So, Cas and I, we have this thing.”

“You're a _thing_?”

“We have _a thing_.”

“You have a thing. Since when do you have a thing?”

Dean bobbled his head. “Since a couple days.”

“So he's the love of your life for the next 48 hours?”

“What? No, Sam, it's not like that!”

“He's a magician?”

“Sam. This is different. Believe me, this is different somehow. I can't explain it. When he's not around-”

“Which is hardly ever, any more.”

“When he's not around, he's all I can think about. It's like he's still there. It's fucking weird. And when he's there, I just wanna be around him.”

“Oh, boy,” said Sam, rolling his eyes.

“What?”

“You don't know?”

“No. What? Are you trying to be annoying? Because you're fucking succeeding!”

“All I can say is, you better not act like you always do, because I think Gabriel will come and hack you to little itty-bitty pieces.”

“Well. Yeah. There's that.” Actually, Dean hadn't considered the vengeful big brother angle. “Why didn't you warn me about this before?”

“You didn't ask me!”

“Well, that's right, nobody asked you.”

Sam got a very smug look. “You're in love with a street fighter,” he taunted.

“I am? Shit. I am. What the hell.”

Sam chuckled in an annoyingly condescending manner. “If it's any consolation, I'm in the same boat with Jess. If I don't keep on the straight and narrow, the Lawrence P.D. has my name and home address.”

Dean laughed. He really hadn’t thought about it like that before. But then he realized that meant Sam was comparing him and Cas to Sam and Jess, and he grew thoughtful once again.

“Here we are,” said Sam, and it was literally at that point that Dean realized he was in the Harvelle’s parking lot. Once they got inside, to Dean’s surprise, Cas was sitting up at the bar, where it looked like Jo had actually convinced him to do shots.

“You guys made it here in one piece?” Dean asked Bobby.

“We were fine. You’re obviously a hell of a driving instructor, Dean. Although I’ll tell you right now the boy ain’t driving us back.”

“Why not, Bobby?” asked Cas, who attempted to turn around on the barstool and ended up flopped halfway into Dean’s arms. “Hello, Dean!” he said brightly. “I'm doing shots!”

“Had a little too much to drink, there, Cas?” laughed Dean, attempting to reposition his now boneless friend up on the stool. 

“No!” Cas emitted a burp. “I mean, maybe?”

“How about this? What if we got sit at a booth and have some of Ellen’s fried mushrooms?” Dean wasn't quite sure whether or not Cas agreed, but he half walked half carried him over to a booth and put in an order for something that wasn't alcoholic.

“Dean!” piped up Charlie. She invited herself to plop down in the booth opposite them and opened her laptop.

“'Sup?” asked Dean.

“So, you remember that weird drug you asked me - um, I mean, _my friend_ \- to trace for you?”

Dean looked baffled.

“Yes,” said Cas. “PerFormaT? You have something. Already?”

“Well, yeah, it was a fun problem! They have firewalls in front of firewalls. But the answer is, it goes nowhere.”

“What? How can it go nowhere?” asked Dean.

“No clue. All of the trails lead to nowhere. It’s like it all ends up stacked up in some warehouse somewhere.”

“That’s strange,” said Cas, popping a fried mushroom into his mouth.

Charlie grinned triumphantly. “But I tell you what my buddy did find! It’s shadowy! It's blacker than black! Times infinity!”

“What?”

“Roman Industries is also parent company to Wellman, Inc. It’s through a couple of subsidiaries in the Cayman Islands.”

“Wait,” said Dean, “Wellman is the company that does….”

“Wellman Wellies,” sighed Cas. 

“Those horrible fake fighting boots that the stupid people all wear!”

Charlie looked smug. “Well, they may be fake, but they’ve donated a ton of them to a certain academic program.” 

Dean and a suddenly sobered Cas exchanged a glance. “Who?” asked Dean.

“K-state.” She spun the computer around so Dean and Cas could see the screen.

“Thanks Charlie.”

“Any time! Remember me to Jess!” And she grinned and bounced away.

 

It was Cas’s fault, really.

He had given Dean this look. And you really shouldn’t look at another person like that. So Dean pressed him up against the car, although now he was starting to wonder whether things might be nicer in the back seat.

“Get a room.”

Dean stopped for a moment to glare at his brother. “Could you … I dunno, knock or something.”

Sam spread his long arms. “Knock where? We’re in the Harvelle’s parking lot, Dean.”

Dean looked around and realized it was true. “Well, you know.”

Sam heaved a sigh. “Are we gonna go home or what?”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Home.” Dean opened the driver’s side door and pushed Cas inside. 

“You're impossible when you're hormonal, you know,” said Sam.

“I'm not fucking hormonal! Now get in the damn car! Before we leave your ass behind.”

“Can I drive home, Dean?” asked Cas, grinning and gripping the steering wheel.

“No fucking way! Shove over!” Cas vacated the driver’s seat and Dean slipped in beside him.

“You guys take it easy up there,” said Sam, climbing into the back. “I sit up there.”

“Sam,” grunted Dean, sitting behind the wheel. He peeled out. “Oh, did you ask Charlie to look up that drug we got from Gabriel?”

“She offered. Or rather her hacker 'friend' volunteered. What? Did she already come up with something” asked Sam.

“No,” said Dean. “Nothing but dead ends. But there’s another, related company. I’m not sure how it’s related, but they’re owned by the same guy. Wellman.”

“What the hell? The guys who make those horrible fake boots? I hate those things!”

“They may be fake, but they’re donating a bunch of them to the K-State fencing team.”

Sam sat back and scowled. “Okay. _Why_ would the K-State team want a bunch of freaking go-go boots? Is Crowley insane?”

“Maybe Crowley digs rave parties?”

“That player who tried to hit me tonight,” mused Cas. “There was something wrong with him. I told Coach Henricksen about it.”

“That dude who made the late hit?” grumbled Dean, looking murderous. “I shoulda strangled him.”

“It’s a pretty well-known side-effect of the doping, Cas,” said Sam, leaning up against the front seat. “Aggression.”

“It was more than that, Sam. I looked him in the eye. There was something … not right about him.”

“Something’s gone ass over tits in the state of Denmark,” sighed Dean. 

“Did you need help on your Shakespeare essay?” offered Cas.

“No. But we really need to talk to Crowley.”

Sam nodded, and they drove the rest of the way home in a thoughtful silence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 11 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** This chapter: PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, no beta. **Word Count:** 80,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter we visit an unfortunately-named college pub, summon a demon, and Dean eats a burger with extra onions.

 

There was no one, Sam reflected, he knew better than his brother, Dean.

He stretched his sword arm, trying to maintain the yoga pose Cas had given him. 

Yes, he was close to Jess. She was probably his soul mate, in fact, lucky, undeserving bastard that he was. But he _knew_ his big brother. Maybe from those years of raising each other in motel rooms while John roamed the countryside doing whatever the fuck he did, Dean had gotten under Sam’s skin. It was almost telepathy.

Well, not quite telepathy. That would be gross, considering how Dean’s mind worked. Sam was well accustomed to the string of girls who flitted in and out of their lives starting some time during Dean’s adolescence. The names he didn’t remember. It didn’t pay to remember their names: he was unsure if even Dean knew half the time.

And the guys…. Well, there weren’t as many as the girls, but it had hit Sam full in the face that time he was thirteen years old walked in on Dean and that guy he was “studying algebra” with. Algebra dude: he was definitely flexible. The truly annoying thing was that Dean didn’t seem at all put out, but Sam had ended up wanting to crawl under a rock and hide from humanity for the next twenty years.

But here was the thing: he knew for a fact he had never seen his brother quite like this, around a girl or a guy. It was … entertaining as hell was what it was.

“Sammy, you look like a Yeti trying to do the Harlem Shake.”

Sam shook off his reverie and returned to more or less of a standing position. “I’m working on my balance. _Your boyfriend_ gave me a couple of poses.”

The mild taunt worked its magic. Dean turned pink and ducked his head, muttering something about how his boyfriend wasn’t his boyfriend even though he was, really.

Sam wondered if he should rub it in, but he found he wasn’t feeling particularly obnoxious. It could wait. For later. “So, did you talk to Bobby? About Crowley and the stuff we learned?”

Dean grumbled and hopped up on the hood of a wrecked car. “He’s busy. He’s got some repair jobs he wants to get completed this week. I offered to help, but he told me to stick with my damned school work.” The latter part of the sentence was spoken in a rather good imitation of Bobby's irritated cadence.

Sam turned off his blade and went over to lean on the fender next to Dean, smiling indulgently. “You’d rather be rebuliding a transmission?”

“Definitely. But it looks like we’re gonna have to wait to get answers about what the fuck is up with K-state.”

“Hello Dean. Sam.”

Dean wriggled off the car at Cas’s approach, but then the two stood just apart, smiling stupidly at each other.

Jess had opined that they were “cute” together. She didn't mention the annoying as all hell part. Sam loudly cleared his throat. 

“Are you doing your balance exercises, Sam?” Cas politely inquired as his attention shifted slightly to something outside of Dean. Sam suddenly folded himself into some kind of origami. 

Cas nodded approvingly. “Whoa, doesn't that … hurt?” asked Dean.

“I am here because just received a text message,” Cas told them.

“A text?” asked Dean, rounding on him. “Who sent you a text message.” 

“Becky,” said Cas, raising the phone.

“Becky? I thought she was _your_ stalker?” Dean told Sam, who unwrapped himself enough to manage a shrug.

“She says I am needed,” said Cas. “We are _all_ needed.”

“Seriously? What now?”

 

The team assembled outside the Kansas Union building.

"Everyone gather around the Jayhawk," Becky ordered. She and Chuck had arranged for a team photo gathered around a statue of the strutting, brightly-feathered college mascot.

"Where the hell is Jo? She's usually the first to line up for this sort of shit," said Dean, who was usually last for that kind of shit.

As if in answer, Jess blurted out, "Oh, sweetie!" to the newly arrived, teary-eyed Jo. She engulfed her in a hug.

"What the hell?" said Dean.

"Can we just do the photo?" barked Becky. "Here, Sam, you need to stand over here!" She urged. She gripped a very uncomfortable Sam around the waist and shoved him into a fractionally different position. But while she was doing that all of the other girls had wandered off to gather around Jo and dab off her face with tissues and offer up eyeliner. “Are you girls done?”

“Hold your horses, Becky. We just need to fix Jo,” said Pamela, handing Meg back her mascara brush and studying her handiwork on Jo's face. 

“Jess should be in the picture too!” sniffed Jo.

“She doesn't even play!” said Becky, stamping a foot.

“Neither do I,” said Pamela. So, to Becky's extreme annoyance, the team dragged Jess into the photo as well, which resulted in yet more shuffling around, and Dean grabbing both a surprised Cas and a grinning Sam into headlocks just at the moment Chuck shouted, “Say cheeseburger!”

“You gonna tell us what's the matter?” asked Dean after several more poses and a fair bit of Becky groping Sam until Benny and Ash gripped her by the arms and forced her into one of the photos. 

“It's Gordon, right?” said Jess.

“He's not even on our team anymore!” said Dean.

Jo sniffled, and wiped her nose on her sleeve, ruining the makeup repair job. “I'm worried about him. I got a text from him. I don't think it's like he thought it would be.”

“Should we look into this?” asked Sam.

“I think you should talk to him,” said Jo.

“We could arrange a meeting,” said Cas.

“He doesn't even go here!” protested Dean. After this produced a round of furious looks, he added, “Look, Jo. I realize you're upset....”

“But don't worry,” said Sam.

“We'll look into it,” said Cas. 

“Oh, thank you!” squealed Jo, throwing her arms around a terribly confused and flustered Cas, who flushed red and tentatively patted her back.

“I thought you guys had a thing,” Sam whispered to Dean as Cas turned red as a beet.

“Yeah, I think it's just Jo. Or maybe girls in general,” his brother whispered back. He shrugged. “At least he didn't throw up on her.”

 

“Baby bro!”

Cas broke into a run when they reached the campus parking lot and saw Gabriel waiting there, leaning against the black town car. To Gabriel's surprise, Cas greeted him with an awkward embrace.

“Whoa, don't crush the merchandise,” said Gabriel, pushing him back and grinning. “You guys finally teaching Cassie about not being such a stiff?”

“Some of us more than others,” cracked Sam, which earned a jab in the ribs from Dean.

Cas was peering into the town car. “Balthy isn't here today,” Gabriel told him. He flapped his hands. “Flew off somewhere.”

“How did you get here?” asked Cas.

“Drove myself, dimwit,” said Gabe, swatting Cas on the back of his head. 

“You can drive?” Cas's voice actually broke with the betrayal. “Since when?”

“What the hell else am I supposed to do? I can't walk for shit.” Gabriel hopped up on the fender, swinging his legs. “Cassie, the secret is, don't let anyone know, and then you'll always get a ride.”

Cas straightened up and crossed his arms, holding his chin up. “I have a driver’s license.”

“What?”

“It's one that Bobby cooked up for him,” Dean explained. “You didn’t wanna meet us out at Bobby’s?”

“I haven't been back there yet,” Gabriel admitted. “Your uncle frankly scares the crap out of me. So what have you guys found out with the information I got you? The PerFormaT drug?”

“Bobby's busy right now, so we're kind of waiting,” Dean told him.

“Waiting? Waiting for what?”

“We know Crowley's somehow connected to Roman Industries,” said Sam.

“Yeah, and we suspect Crowley is trying to get Gordon juicing – that player who defected,” grumbled Dean.

“He didn't _defect_ , Dean,” laughed Sam. “He just transferred!”

“Wait, you know a dude who's doping?” asked Gabriel.

“We _think_ so,” said Sam. “But right now it's just circumstantial.”

“He's totally doping,” said Dean.

“Then, why wait for your uncle?” asked Gabriel.

Sam, Dean and Cas exchanged a glance. “What do you mean?” asked Dean.

“Let's go talk to him!”

“I want to get dinner first,” insisted Cas.

“Wait, you got my bro hugging and eating?” asked Gabriel. “What the hell have you been doing to him?”

Sam grinned at Dean, which earned another jab in the ribs.

 

“So that’s the plan? We drive across the state, to our rival team’s town, find our rival team’s bar, and just go strolling in?”

“Yep! That’s my plan,” said Gabriel, who looked to be on top of the world piloting the big town car through Manhattan. Manhattan, Kansas, that is.

Dean slumped back into the capacious back seat, where his brother, annoyingly enough, was stretched out and looking just as comfortable as Dean was agitated. “You could have offered your objections before we took off,” Sam supplied.

“I thought there would be more of a, you know, _plan_ to the plan!” Dean explained. He moodily opened the cooler and pulled out a Gatorade.

“I’m a straightforward kinda guy!” announced Gabriel, who cut yet another corner way too close, causing Dean to spill blue liquid down his front.

“I thought your fighter name was The Trickster!” said Dean.

“Aw, you’re just sore that I wouldn’t let you snuggle in the back seat with my bro!” said Gabriel, which caused Cas to turn around from the passenger seat and give Dean a tantalizing smile. At some point during the drive to Manhattan it had been revealed to Gabriel that Cas and Dean had a “thing.” To Dean’s infinite relief, this did not cause Gabriel to flay Dean alive. To his chagrin, however, it meant Gabriel had appointed himself their official chaperone, and it seemed his new mission in life was to keep them ever at least six feet apart. 

That traitor, Sam, seemed amused by this frustrating turn of events. 

“This is medieval,” grumbled Dean.

“Aw, c’mon, Deano, somebody needs to preserve my brother’s honor.”

“My name’s not _Deano_ , and preserve it from what exactly?”

“I dunno. What do you have in mind?” Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows.

Dean slumped back in the seat. “Nothing.”

“Well, that’s not very creative. Besides, nobody needs to see that. Am I right, Sam?”

Sam, disloyal twit that he was, chuckled. “Oh wait. Is this it?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat and pointing.

“How can you see shit through these fucking windows?” grumbled Dean, who was determined not to enjoy anything. He leaned over past his brother and squinted through the smoked glass at the blinking neon sign. “Wait. Flirty’s? I have to go into a bar called _Flirty’s_?”

Gabriel had pulled off the main street and skillfully maneuvered the car (the behemoth was even larger than the Impala) into a parking space on a small side street, leading Dean to wonder exactly how often the street fighter grabbed a car and played hooky like this. Gabe and Cas emerged and strode off side by side towards the club, Gabriel with his cane swinging jauntily.

Sam and Dean hurried along after them. Dean was surprised at how sure-footed Gabriel was along the sidewalk, which was spotted with patches of snow and ice from a recent storm. He wondered not for the first time what the guy had been like in his prime. He remembered the fuzzy fight tape he had watched with Rufus and Frank: Cas had been much more showy with his style, but Gabriel was an efficient little fighting machine. 

“You brought your sidearm?” Dean reflexively whispered to Sam.

“Yes, Dean, I brought my sidearm,” sighed Sam, rolling his eyes as the sword he carried on his belt was rather obvious. “Though I really doubt I’m gonna use it.”

“Oh. You don’t think things will get hairy?”

“I think there will be no need because we’re out with Gabe and your _boyfriend_ ,” said Sam, tilting his head towards the street fighters swaggering up the block. 

“But Gabe’s not even armed,” croaked Dean. And indeed, he wasn’t.

Gabe and Cas paused at the doorway. Gabriel glanced back at Sam and Dean, and then, with a slight nod at Cas, pushed through the door to Flirty’s.

Sam and Dean picked up the pace and Dean charged into the bar. At first, as his eyes adjusted, he didn’t recognize Cas and Gabriel. Somehow in the act of going through the door Gabriel seemed to have shrunk, and now, limping, leaned heavily on Castiel’s arm.

“That was a hell of a game for KU. One hell of a game!” boomed Gabriel, whose voice was loud enough to be heard over the noise and chaos of the bar. 

Dean nervously scanned the room. There were a lot of eyes on them now. “We’re going to die here, aren’t we?” he whispered to Sam.

“Just go with it,” Sam advised him. He peering over the crowd, and signaled to Gabriel to head towards the back room.

Dean glimpsed what his giraffe-like brother was looking at as soon as they entered. “Yep, we’re gonna die.” There were a number of K-State players gathered around one of the stained and battered tables, and all of them were glaring. He instinctively glanced under the table: yes, every single one of them had come armed. 

To Dean’s mounting horror, Gabe deposited himself at a table directly opposite from the scowling rival team. Dean and Sam crowded into the bench against the wall as Cas, after making sure his “crippled” brother was settled, made his way back through the crowd to the bar.

“I'm just not feeling it, you know,” Gabriel told Sam and Dean. “You ever just not feel it?”

Sam refolded himself to fit behind the table. “Sometimes.”

“What are you not feeling, crip?” snapped Alastair, who was sitting in the middle of the K-State table, Ruby draped over him.

Gabriel whirled around. “Well! That’s an interesting question. And how very astute of you to point out my obvious disability. There’s nothing that doesn’t get past you K-State hulks, is there?”

“Ignore him, Alastair,” grumbled Ruby.

“Yes, and congratulations to you, my dear, on being able to tie your boots and leave your house this morning.”

“You don’t insult her,” warned Alastair.

“Insult, huh? It would be difficult to insult that one,” cracked Gabriel. “Maybe I should lie down on the floor and give it another try?”

“That’s it,” said Alastair, hopping up beside the table and upsetting just about everybody’s drinks in the process.

“Say, you like your beer all down your front?” said Gabriel. Cas had just returned from the bar with a small tray of beers. “Let me help!” Gabe grabbed a beer from the tray and tossed one onto Alastair. 

“We’re dead,” Dean told Sam.

 

“I've been kicked out of lots better places!” Gabriel yelled, waving his cane after the burly bouncer who had rather politely escorted him out the door. 

Sam, Dean and Cas had not been so lucky, as they were all presumably able-bodied, the other bouncers had not been quite so gentle, although Cas had, oddly enough, managed to keep hold of his beer, which he now gulped. Dean sent him a questioning look, and Cas grinned. “I've been out with Gabriel before.”

“That was kind of a waste, Gabe,” grumbled Dean as they stood on the icy sidewalk, picking themselves up and brushing themselves off.

“What's that, Deano?” asked Gabriel, throwing a jaunty arm around Dean's shoulder. 

“Gabe. We didn't learn anything about Gordon, and we got kicked out before I even started my drink.”

“Ah, no drinkies for you, Deano, you're driving!” And with that, Gabriel strode off, Cas beside him, still sipping his pint of beer.

“Hey, that's not the way to the car!” Dean called after him. He looked to Sam, who shrugged, and they headed after the street fighters. 

Gabriel took them on a short walking tour around the neighborhood. “Are we going in circles?” Dean whispered to Sam at one point.

“Yeah, we're going in circles,” said Sam, looking around nervously.

As if on cue, Cas, with Gabriel now clinging to his arm, disappeared around a corner, and the Winchesters hurried to catch up.

They all came to a halt in the middle of a large, trash-strewn vacant lot.

They weren't the only people there. About half a dozen of the K-state guys from the bar had assembled as well.

“Hey, fancy meeting you here!” said Gabriel, saluting with his cane. “We wanted to talk.”

“We don't talk to scumbags,” said Alastair, whose hair was still pasted down from the spilled beer. They had drawn weapons, and a couple were tapping boots. The cold air smelled of ozone.

“Yeah, it figures that speech is difficult for you guys. Lucky you're not trying to chew gum as well!”

“Gabe,” said Dean. Cas turned around and took a drink of his beer. Smiling calmly, he wiped the foam off with a sleeve, and mouthed, _“Stay back.”_

Gabriel leaned on his cane. “See, we've been kind of curious about Gordon. He left our team, and now we're worried about him.”

“Nobody talks to Gordon,” declared Alastair.

“Wait, why?” asked Dean. “It's not as if he defected! He just transferred schools.” This earned him a dirty look from Sam.

“Didn't you hear the man?” asked Ruby. “Nobody talks to Gordon.”

“Well, why don't you put down those big old pointy sticks and talk to us?” asked Gabriel.

“We're done talking.” And then something very strange happened: Alastair's eyes flashed, just for a second. It looked like they'd been covered in a slick black oil. Even Gabriel seemed a little taken aback. But then he nodded over to Cas.

And then a lot of things happened at once. Someone shouted, “five,” and several electrical blades went up, humming. Alastair lunged, but Cas guzzled the rest of his beer and tossed it away, and then hopped up in Gabriel's cupped hands and flipped over him, clobbering Alastair from the back. Ruby rushed at Gabriel, but he darted out of the way and took her down by hooking an ankle with his cane. 

There were four K-State players standing. Gabe hit a switch on his cane and drew out a sword from the handle. Making skillful use of both the small sword and the handle, he downed another guy. Dean, who, as a Winchester, hadn’t really been paying attention to the order to stay back, had his weapon drawn and ended up getting body-checked by a huge lump of a guy. He crouched down and landed a good one with the hilt of his sword right in the dude’s ample midsection, and then clobbered him while he was staggering around.

He whirled around in time to see his brother exchanging rapid blows with another K-State dude, sparks flicking off in the night as the electric blades clashed. Dean rubbed his bruised ribs and noted, to his astonishment, Sam’s fierce smile as he fought. The little shit was clearly having the time of his life. 

Then Sam stepped back on a patch of ice, momentarily losing his balance. Dean stood staring, sword in hand, not knowing what to do. It would have been dishonorable to rush in when the two of them were clearly dueling, but goddammit, that was his little brother.

Dean decided big brother outweighed honor, but felt a hand restraining him. Cas had him by the arm. “Wait,” he mouthed.

To Dean’s astonishment, Sam managed to dart out of the way of his opponent’s blow, and then he somehow got all the way around 360 degrees and got the guy low in the leg. Another blow, and the guy was down. Sam grinned like a fiend.

Cas smirked, and Dean blinked.

That left one guy, Samhain, and Gabe with a sword at his neck, staring him down.

“My brother is pissed,” Gabe told Samhain.

“I didn't get to enjoy my beer,” said Cas.

“You need to quit looking for Gordon.” said Samhain.

“Why is that?” asked Dean.

“Because he's not one of you any more, idiots,” spat Ruby. She was still down on the ground, but was a little more coherent, probably because she hadn't been clobbered with an electric blade. 

“And what the hell do you mean by that?” asked Dean.

“We're not just players any more. We're supermen.”

“Oh, bullshit, Ruby,” said Sam. “We just took all of you down, and our team beat yours!”

“Good to know you're still an asshole,” Ruby told Sam.

“Good to know you're still a bitch,” Sam told Ruby.

“Are we, uh, intruding on something?” Gabriel asked, earning him glares from Sam and Ruby.

“Look, whether it's training or drugs or whatever, don't you realize there isn't a short cut to all this?” asked Dean.

“Oh, thanks for the public service announcement,” said Samhain. “You would still be losers if you weren't screwing a street fighter.”

“Hey!” said Dean, who charged forward, only to be stopped by Gabriel's cane. 

But quick as a wink, Cas had Samhain by the collar, holding him up and staring into his eyes.

That was when Samhain's eyes flashed black again. And stayed that way. Cas stared for a moment, and then dropped his grip on the duelist, stumbling backwards. “What are you?” he muttered. He looked at Dean. 

Samhain's eyes had gone back to normal. 

“I think … maybe it’s time to go,” said Gabriel soberly.

“Yeah, I think so too,” said Dean. 

They slowly cleared out of the vacant lot, backing away, Cas and Gabriel with swords raised, and then all four beat a hasty, silent retreat to Gabriel’s car, which sped off into the night.

“That was … weird,” Castiel finally said.

“That was very weird,” said Gabriel

“You know what I think?” said Dean.

“Yeah?”

“I think we need to talk to Uncle Bobby. He specializes in weird.”

 

Dean was distracting Cas, his new favorite occupation. Cas had been putting dinner together when Dean strolled in and, seeing Bobby nowhere in sight, hopped up on the counter and started to grab bits of food.

“Have you turned into Gabriel now?” asked an exasperated Cas. “You don't even like vegetables!”

“I'm definitely not Gabe,” said Dean, who grabbed Cas and pulled him into a kiss.

“My hands are dirty,” said Cas, holding them up as evidence.

“You told me I need more vegetables.”

“Will you get your dumb ass off my counter, ya idjit?” demanded Bobby, startling the hell out of Dean. “You can keep your hands off him for ten damn minutes while he's making my dinner.” Cas smiled and went back to chopping vegetables. 

“Sorry, Uncle Bobby,” said Dean, who was really not terribly sorry at all.

“Cas, you got your essay done?”

“Yes sir,” said Cas.

“And studied for your mid-term exam?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why don't you ask _me_ if I've studied?” asked Dean.

“Because it wouldn't do any good with you, you've always been a pig-headed little shit. Sam, you here?”

“Yes, Uncle Bobby,” said Sam, who was suddenly hovering in the doorway.

“All right, listen up! After we're done with dinner, we have an important activity. We're gonna summon up a demon.”

“What, really? Cool!” said Dean, who was imagining a situation that looked something like a heavy metal album cover.

“Sam, I got a list of ingredients I want you to gather. Cas, you're gonna come with me, and do some painting.”

“Painting?” asked Cas, who appeared bemused by the situation.

“And what do I do, Uncle Bobby?” asked Dean.

“Well, since you've suddenly become a fan of my kitchen, you're gonna clean the damn dinner dishes.”

“Aw,” said Dean. It didn't seem very heavy metal. Of course, neither did painting.

“Dinner will be ready in about 15 minutes, Bobby,” said Cas.

“I'll go wash up,” said Bobby, breezing out of the kitchen. 

“Hey, Bobby,” said Dean, following him out into the living room. But Bobby ignored him. “Sam,” he muttered to his brother. “Is he treating Cas like he's his kid now?”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, I noticed the same thing.”

“But, he's just been here a few weeks. And I thought Bobby only did the last name thing so he could stay enrolled.”

“Dean. You are a complicated guy.”

“What?”

Sam grinned broadly. “So, now you have a ‘thing’ with Cas, but you also have sibling rivalry with him? Psychologically speaking, that's pretty mind-bending.”

“It's not sibling rivalry! It's just, Bobby never gives a shit if I do my homework.”

“Bobby gives a shit, Dean.” Sam huffed a sigh. “Look, give him a break, all right? He took us in when our dad couldn't be bothered, and I've never heard the man complain. Even when we gave him reason to! If the guy wants to start going to parent-teacher conferences with Cas, I'd say, let him. You know damn well neither one of us would put up with that.”

Sam wandered off to study, leaving Dean looking uncertain.

 

“What's with the decoration?” asked Dean when he entered the shed. Bobby and Cas had cleared out a big patch of the floor, which was now painted with a large five-pointed star.

“It's a trap, boy. A very special kind,” said Bobby. 

Cas, deep in concentration, was holding an old, crumbling book to his nose, painting a design, looking at the book, and then going back to painting. He had succeeded at smearing as much paint on himself as on the floor. “How does that look, Bobby?”

“Just about perfect. Boy's got a knack for this!” Bobby started to walk around. “You have to be careful, though. Can't go with near perfect, or your critter will escape.”

“I got the stuff, Uncle Bobby!” said Sam, stumbling in clutching a cardboard box.

“Let's see here,” said Bobby. “I don't have as much know-how about summoning as I do in banishing. It usually don't come up in my work. Gimme that book, Cas.”

Bobby began setting aside ingredients and kept Sam and Dean running back and forth for more for a while. Then when he was finally satisfied, and he'd done one more inspection of Cas's trap, he had the boys step back and started tossing this and that into a big ceramic bowl. Dean watched in wonder: sometimes Bobby would toss in an herb and the whole thing would start to flame or throw off sparks. It was pretty cool.

“All right, the last step, and I'm just guessing here, but I have a hunch this will do it.” Bobby dug his wallet out of his pants and picked out a one dollar bill. He chanted something in Latin, and then released the dollar and let it float down into the bowl, where it caused yet another colorful light show.

The overhead lights sputtered out. Dean instinctively threw a protective arm across where his brother stood, and grabbed Cas's paint-splattered shoulder.

And then the lights were back on.

And there was another presence in the room. Right in the middle of the trap.

“Whoa!” said Dean. “Awesome!”

“What the bloody hell?” growled Crowley, who had quite suddenly forgotten to be charming. His tie was loosened, and he had a drink in his hand, as if he had just come home and was relaxing for the evening.

“Just wanted a little chat,” said Bobby.

“Crowley?” said Dean. 

Crowley turned and peered at him. “Oh no, not you!” He wandered over to the edge of Bobby's trap, being careful not to cross the edge, and peered into the bowl. “You summoned me with one dollar? ONE DOLLAR? You cheap bastards!”

“You _came_ for one dollar. Who's the cheap bastard?” said Bobby.

“Wait, you're a demon?” asked Dean.

Crowley scoffed. “Well, nothing gets past you, does it, Huckleberry?”

“Wait, but you're a dueling coach!”

“I’m a _winning_ coach, dearheart. Seven seasons running the best win/loss record in the Midwest. Do you think anybody gives a shit what I do in my off hours?”

“He's got a point,” said Sam.

Crowley turned to address Bobby. “I will assume that you are the boys's uncle/guardian/all around snoop?”

“I'm Bobby Singer.”

“Ah, Castiel's father figure. I should have known from the family resemblance. So, Bobby Singer, what do you and your Boy Scout jamboree want from me?”

“What do you have to say about Gordon?” asked Dean.

Crowley heaved a sigh, crouched down and brushed imaginary dust from a patch of the floor, and then seated himself, cross-legged. “More trouble than he's worth, that one.”

Bobby crossed his arms. “We got word that you got him juicing.”

“And there’s something weird about your team,” said Dean.

“They’re demon possessed, most likely,” said Bobby.

Dean turned to stare at his uncle. “What? Holy hell.”

“Nothing holy about it,” sighed Crowley. “Look, I am just a simple sportsman, trying to cheat my way to another championship title. Is there anything so wrong with that?”

“Depends,” said Bobby. “You gonna let those kids go at the end of the year?”

“Yes. All of the innocent little children who _volunteered_ for this will be released, to a championship trophy, their parent’s pride and, I might add, a much higher combined GPA.”

“What about Gordon Walker?” asked Dean.

“This is about Walker?” sighed Crowley. “Yes, that's quite a … situation.”

“How is it a situation?”

Crowley heaved a long sigh, and then blurted, “He frightened off my demon!”

Dean, Cas, Sam and Bobby all exchanged glances. And then, as one, began to howl with laughter. 

“This is not amusing! He's a quite a little shit.”

“If he ain't of any use to you then...” said Bobby.

“If I give him back,” sighed Crowley, “and tear up the contract, will that be enough to send you impertinent plaid-wrapped entities packing?”

“I don't wear plaid,” said Cas.

“There's one more thing,” said Sam. “Your supply of sporting equipment. Dueling footwear.”

Crowley quite suddenly stopped looking cool and casual and appeared actually a bit fraught. “Yes, what about it?”

“We know you're getting stuff donated from Wellman. As fully owned subsidiary of Roman Enterprises.”

“If you gentlemen are quite done.” Crowley abruptly stood up and nervously tapped his watch, “I have my mani/pedi.”

“Answer the damn question,” demanded Bobby.

“I didn't hear a question,” grumbled Crowley.

“We wanna hear about your relationship with Roman Enterprises,” said Dean.

“Relationship? Roman? Naw, we're just good friends.”

“Crowley!” said Bobby. “I got a jug of holy water in the house. You want me to bring it on down.”

“You're telling me the weird boy doesn't know about Dick?” he said, eyeing Castiel.

“What do you mean?” asked Cas.

“I have already said too much. Send your intrepid boy reporters out on the job. And now, that you have right and properly screwed me over, may I please depart these hideous surroundings?”

Bobby nodded. He picked up a knife and scratched through one of the paint lines on the trap.

There was the scent of sulfur.

And quite abruptly, Crowley was standing nose to nose with Bobby. “Call me again and there won't be enough of you left to mop up, old man.”

Bobby shoved the knife into one of Crowley's nostrils. “Iron, ya idjit.”

Crowley stared cross-eyed at the knife. And then he was there no more.

Bobby turned to the boys. “So, what do we know about Dick?”

 

“This looks like the world's most boring office park,” sighed Dean.

“You suppose Crowley steered us wrong?” asked Sam, who was sitting beside him in the Impala. They were parked across the street from SucroCorp headquarters, as Bobby had absolutely and in no certain terms forbidden them from actually going on to any of Dick Roman's properties.

“He totally would. Damn! I have stuff I need to do.”

“Stuff?”

“Practice! Homework.”

“Wait, Dean, you _want_ to do your homework?”

“Well....”

“Or you wanna be making out with the street fighter?”

The back door opened, causing both Sam and Dean to jump. “What about me?” asked Cas, who had just slid into the back seat.

“Oh, uh, nothing Cas,” said Dean. “Just wondering where you were.” Sam grinned as Cas handed over a plastic container of many chopped vegetables.

“They didn't have honey mustard,” said Cas apologetically, handing over a little plastic packet. “So I got you ranch. I like ranch.”

“Is there anything actually to eat in that bag?” groused Dean, who was handed a burger-shaped item in waxed paper. “Ah! This is what I'm talking about.”

“They asked me if I wanted extra cheese or extra onions, so I said yes.”

Dean unpeeled the paper and took a bite. He rolled his eyes in orgasmic glee. “You're perfect.”

“Ugh, do I gotta sit in the car with him for the rest of the afternoon?” Sam grumbled.

Cas rattled the bag and extracted a handful of French fries. He held up another packet of ranch dressing and expertly chewed a small rip in the top, and then delicately applied the sauce to the fries. “So what have you guys discovered?”

“This is fucking boring!” said Dean through a mouth full of cheeseburger with extra onions.

“And my brother has the breath of Satan,” laughed Sam, waving his hand at Dean.

“Wait, what's that?” asked Cas, pointing a sauce-covered fry out the window. All three boys turned to look at the panel truck that was approaching the parking lot. On the side it said, Roman Security Solutions LLC. 

“Security solutions?” mocked Dean. “Why don't they just say Rent-A-Goon?”

“Dean!”

“What, Cas? You didn't spill secret sauce on the seat again?”

“Those guards, Dean.”

“What about 'em?” Dean peered over at the personnel emptying from the van. It was about half a dozen guys, and not one of them had a neck to speak of. Dean shuddered. “I spoke too soon, that's an insult to goons.”

“There's something … funny about them.”

“Funny like what?” asked Dean. 

“They don't look like the joking sort,” said Sam.

“Unnatural,” said Cas.

“Unnatural … you mean like Crowley’s fencing team?” asked Dean.

“Unnatural like Crowley’s fencing team.”

“Oh. Oh! Holy fuck.”

“Holy something,” said Sam.

Tossing his burger to the seat beside him, Dean started the car and shifted into drive.

“Wait! Dean, you know what Bobby said!” Sam and Dean looked at each other.

Dean grinned and, as Sam rolled his eyes and Cas looked on curiously, he guided the car towards the SucroCorp parking lot.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 12 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** This chapter: PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, no beta.   
**Word Count:** 80,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter, the boys fill out internship applications, Cas learns more about his past, and KU plays another match.

 

“And who exactly is Ginger Baker?” whispered Cas as he squinted purposefully at the Roman Enterprises internship application form attached to his clipboard.

“Shhh. _You._ You are Ginger Baker,” Dean muttered back. The three boys went silent as a stern-faced woman in a sharply-cut suit passed by. The office had that new carpet smell. In fact, the whole building had the feel of something that had been slapped up and opened for business just this morning. Germ-free. Spotless. And everything was so … _plastic_.

“Hey.” Dean nudged Sam once the woman had safely passed out of the waiting room area and disappeared into an office. “She seem familiar?”

Sam gazed at the ceiling for an instant and then snapped his fingers. “The academic duel! Jaunoeil and Swift. Wasn't she one of the drones buzzing around Dick Roman?”

“Dumb bastard got to sit in the good seats,” grumbled Dean as he and Sam rose and handed their applications in at the desk, both feigning sincere smiles as they did so.

“Thank you Mr. Clapton. Mr. Bruce,” droned the ageless being behind the desk, her voice an unholy blend of aged whiskey and unfiltered cigarettes.

“Hey, you don't think that means Roman is actually here today?” asked Sam as they ambled back to the seating area.

“We got a little Dick in the house?” said Dean, casting a sly gaze around the little office. “Might be worth taking a look around, what do you think?”

They sat back down next to Cas. “Hey, Sam and I are gonna take a stroll.”

“What should I put down for my references?” Cas asked Dean, his expression earnest.

“Steve Winwood and Ric Grech,” said Dean. “We'll be right back.” And then, after inquiring of the disinterested admin the correct route to the men’s room, he and Sam were off down the beige corridor.

“Boy, this is not exactly a party atmosphere,” Dean complained after they passed yet another knot of surly Roman employees.

“You know, I'd be a little more confident about this if it were 3 am and just us and some sleepy security guards,” Sam told Dean.

“Hey, you could have stayed with Cas filling out applications.”

“Frankly, Dean, he was driving me a little crazy. He's actually taking this seriously.”

“He takes _everything_ seriously. It's like his transmission got stuck in serious gear.”

“Wait, look, isn't that one of the goons?” Sam pointed up the corridor. Both brothers ducked around a corner. They peered out. 

“Yeah. And if they've got goons on guard, it must be something they don't want us to see.”

“Uhhhh, Dean.” Sam leaned out and took another look at the guards. “Those guys are big as rhinos.”

“Maybe we could put on our rhino tamer hats.”

“Our what?” Sam stared at his brother.

A door opened, and Dean and Sam cringed back again. They flattened themselves against the wall as best they could as two of the goons walked right by. Some people in suits followed, and then none other than Dick Roman. Who was joking with a very familiar figure.

“Hey. That was....” whispered Dean.

“Zachariah,” said Sam.

“Creepy immortal Zach.” The party had passed, so Sam and Dean relaxed. “We should get out of here.”

“Dean. Zachariah doesn't know what we look like....”

“Cas! Shit! Let's go.” The brothers high-tailed it back to the Human Resources office, being careful to avoid Dick Roman and his entourage on the way. But they pulled up short, seeing the waiting room was completely empty.

“Where the hell is Cas?” rasped Dean, feeling the panic rising.

“Thank you very much for the opportunity,” said a familiar voice. Cas was shaking the hand of the stony-face woman they had passed on the way in. 

“Thank you, Mr. Baker. You are the kind of self-starter individual Mr. Roman likes on the team.

“Yes, you could say I am a real team player,” said Cas, smiling over at Sam and Dean as the woman turned on her high heel and departed.

Dean rushed over to Cas. “Oh, hey, Ginger. We gotta go. Uh. Mom wants the car back.”

“Mr. Clapton? Mr. Bruce?” rasped the administrative assistant at the desk. “Your interviews are next.”

“Uh, yeah, maybe next time. I just remembered we got a lot of school work to do. I got, you know, homework. And stuff.” Dean seized Cas by the arm and marched him out of the office.

“And stuff?” asked Sam as they hastened out.

“You know, whatever it is students do,” said Dean. They burst out the front door and all then did a clumsy walk-run to the car.

“What happened?” asked Cas from the back seat as Dean was peeling out.

“Zachariah,” said Sam.

“What. You saw him?”

“He was meeting with Dick!” said Dean.

“WHAT?” Cas turned around to gaze out the back window at the retreating Roman Enterprises building. 

Dean pressed the accelerator. “We're putting in some miles so he doesn't see your ass.”

“Why the hell would he be there?” asked Cas.

“You got no idea?”

“We know some of the dojos were getting sporting equipment donations from Wellman, which is owned by Roman,” said Sam.

Cas sat and frowned. “Dean. When Zachariah took over my dojo, there was talk about new leadership. No one seemed to know who. And most of us didn't pay attention to such thing. The guys just wanted to fight.”

Dean gripped the steering wheel. “Wait a minute. You think Dick and Roman Enterprises were behind pushing Zach in your faces?”

“That makes sense, Dean!” said Sam. “His companies are manufacturing the drugs that pump up the fighters. And then their media enterprises sell the fights. He makes money going in and coming out.”

“But he’s also stocking the earth with a bunch of nasty fallen angels!” said Dean. “Like your pal, Uriel.”

“He’s not my pal,” Cas grumbled.

“So what do we do?” asked Sam.

“For now, I guess we go home. Get some dinner.”

“I thought I would make spinach lasagna!” said Cas. 

Dean looked dubious. “Dunno if Bobby wants vegetables so close to his lasagna. And you can’t tell me you’re already hungry?”

“I’m starved. Can we stop by the grocery store on the way home?”

Dean shook his head. “You got a hollow leg, Cas. Yeah, sure. Maybe we can pick up some pie.”

Sam laughed. “Now who’s got a hollow leg?”

 

They found Bobby in a serious mood.

“Cas, sit down,” said Bobby, who looked grim.

Castiel felt a chill run through his heart. “I’d prefer to remain standing. Sir,” he said haltingly. But Dean put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him into one of the kitchen chairs.

“Now, I don’t want you to get sore at me. But you remember you told Rufus you were interested in learning about your folks?”

Cas shook his head. “I don’t remember anything about either of them. Have they found out anything?”

“Well, Rufus put Frank on the case. Now, I know Frank’s kind of a nutball, but he’s good at what he does.”

Cas looked between Bobby and Dean. “And? What did they find?”

Bobby looked sad.

 

Cas sat down on the grass, crossing his legs. He reached over and pulled out a few weeds that had grown around the grave marker. He brushed the markings on the stone. “That’s the year I was sent to live with my relatives,” he said, pointing to the date inscription. “The year she died.”

Dean sat down opposite of Cas. Sam and Jess stood nearby, holding hands.

“So now we know why she gave you up,” said Dean. “She had to.”

Cas ran his fingers along the carved letters. “And her name was … Jane?”

“Bobby says they just called her a Jane Doe. Rufus says we think her name was Hannah.”

“Hannah,” Cas repeated. His smile was wistful. “That’s a nice name.”

“Cas?” Castiel looked up at Sam. Jess was holding the bouquet she had brought along. Cas nodded, and Jess knelt down and placed the flowers on the stone marker. She squeezed Cas’s shoulder and stood up. 

“I think I’d like … a moment?” Cas said.

Sam nodded. “Jess and I wanted to walk around the grounds for a little while.” They took off, while Dean remained. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asked after a time.

“Yes.” Cas’s voice was shaky. “Please thank Bobby. I’ve never had this before. I never knew.”

“I don’t remember much about my own mom,” said Dean, straightening out one of his legs when it began to cramp. “And Sam doesn’t remember anything at all. He was too young.”

“I’ve always thought I remembered her face. But it might be a false memory.”

“They’re trying to find a picture-“

“There’s probably not much hope, if she was a prostitute.”

Dean bit his lip. 

“It’s all right, Dean. I’m ignorant, not stupid. This part of the graveyard is outside hallowed ground.” He pointed back up the hill, towards a rusty iron fence that demarcated the grassy grounds. “You know, I don’t understand. If she was an honorable person, why should God turn His back on her?”

“This isn’t God’s doing,” said Dean. “This is a bunch of men. A bunch of stupid men.”

Cas smiled slightly. “I don’t believe I am much interested, nor would it be profitable, to search for my father.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I'm sure.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, fair enough. We’ll tell them, okay?”

And they sat for a while in silence, listening to the soft wind blow.

 

“So, he wants to kill her?”

“I think it’s more complicated than that, Cas,” answered Sam from up on the couch where he was sitting snuggling with Jess.

“No, it’s just that simple,” said Dean. He was down on the carpet, back against the couch, Cas sitting between his knees with a bowl of popcorn on his lap. “He wants to kill her!”

“But he doesn’t.”

“Don’t give it away!”

“Who hasn’t seen _The Searchers_?”

“Cas hasn’t seen _The Searchers_.”

“I haven’t seen _The Searchers_ ,” Cas agreed. “And I am out of popcorn,” he added, holding up the empty bowl.

“Garbage gut,” said Dean. 

“I like popcorn, Dean. Will you get some more?”

“You’ll have to get off of me.”

“But I’m comfortable this way.”

“When did you turn into such a pain?”

Dean and Cas stared at each other for a moment.

“I’ll get more popcorn,” said Sam, leaping up and grabbing the bowl. He strode into the kitchen shaking his head at his idiot brother and his idiot boyfriend. He threw a bag of popcorn into the microwave, noticing that Jess had come up behind him. “Coming to supervise?”

“Coming to do this,” she laughed, giving him a kiss and hopping onto the counter. They watched the bag twirl around on the Lazy Susan inside the microwave for a while. “So, your brother….”

“What about my brother?”

“He’s with the same person? And it’s been what, weeks?”

“Dean isn’t _that_ bad, Jess.”

“Yes. He is, actually. You don’t see it because he’s your brother.”

“Look, I dunno. He just seems happy, you know? Like, really, really happy.”

Jess was staring at something very interesting in her fingernails. “We don’t know a lot about Cas.”

“He doesn’t know a lot about himself. Like you saw today, he didn’t even know his mom. He was mostly just raised to do fighting.” Sam regarded his girlfriend: she was in one of those, “I know something but you need to figure it out for yourself, genius,” moods he guessed. Which could be irritating, especially because she was usually right.

Aw, hell, Jess was inevitably right.

“Okay, what?” Sam finally asked. The kitchen had begun to smell of slightly burnt butter.

Jess looked off to the far wall. “You think he's okay? With finding out?”

“Why?”

“He doesn't seem okay.”

The microwave beeped for attention, and he pulled the bulging waxed paper bag of popcorn out of the tray and carefully pulled at the seam, wincing when the steam sprayed across his finger. “What's wrong with him? I thought you liked Cas?” He stuck a hurt finger in his mouth.

“I _do_ like him. Sam. It’s just, I think he needs support right now. And I'm not sure whether your brother is gonna be there for him. As long as we’ve been going out, I’ve never been around any of Dean’s … _friends_ long enough to even remember their names.”

“Well. Yeah. But those guys, they’re inseparable. I mean, it’s like they’ve got magnets inside them.” Sam brought his hands together in an imitation of electromagnetic attraction.

Jess searched her boyfriend's face. “Dean used to say the same thing about us, remember? And the thing is, I mean, it’s just you guys out here. You and Bobby.”

“And you think we’re clueless?” laughed Sam, spilling popcorn into the bowl. Butter smell permeated the house. “Look, _feeling_ stuff isn't my brother's specialty. They'll probably go knock each over on the piste and that will be the end of it.”

“Hey, what the hell’s taking so long?” Dean hollered from the living room.

“You _are_ clueless,” Jess told Sam as she hopped off the counter.

“Stop worrying. Maybe you should worry more about Gabriel and Pamela.”

Jess sighed. “I’m worried more about Pamela and Meg,” she told him, grabbing the bowl and heading back to the living room. “Coming!” she shouted.

“Wait, what?” 

But Sam didn't get an answer.

 

Dean was pleasantly surprised.

Although Cas's cot remained in their room, it had been all but abandoned. The picture of Cas Dean had ripped from one of Rufus's magazines had also remained, though now it was taped above the bureau. And Cas had insisted on also setting up one of Becky's team photos below it, even though Dean found it incredibly dorky.

But, the cot notwithstanding, Dean and Cas now quite frankly shared a bed. Even on the rare night where no funny business happened, they would fall asleep pleasantly tangled up in one another. Dean hadn't regarded himself prior to this as someone you could call a cuddler, but he had no objection to this state of affairs.

But he found himself taken aback by Cas's ardent reaction that evening, after the movie was done and everybody had trailed off to bed. It had been almost like their first night together, where Cas had practically thrown Dean down to the bed, and then struggled to put hands and mouth everywhere at once, like something inside was burning in him. Dean laid back, and let himself be consumed by it, happy and surprised and feeling a little drunk even though he hadn't had a single beer all evening.

Afterwards, though, he wasn't sure why it silpped out but it did, as Cas lay twisted up against him, face pressed into Dean's chest, Dean said, “You okay, man?” Which was weird because of course Cas was okay, and Dean was okay, and they were all just fine thank you.

But fortunately, Cas just muttered something into Dean's skin, and Dean put an affectionate hand through the dark, tangled hair, and let himself drift off.

 

“Do you need me to drive?” sighed Sam as he found Cas and Dean in lip-lock by the car.

“I’m driving in today,” said Cas, holding up a set of keys.

“What?” Sam, thinking it was a joke, looked between Cas and his brother.

“He’s driving that piece of shit!” Dean told him, pointing to a battered Toyota Corolla.

“I need practice.”

“We got you a license!”

“I intend to get a real license,” said Cas. He puffed up. “Now that I have a real legal name.”

“But that’s not your real legal name. It's your fake legal name.”

Cas shrugged. “And then I’ll get a truck. Like Bobby’s!” He smiled mischievously at Dean.

“He has no taste. Here I thought I raised him right, and he has no taste.” Cas waved and opened his car door. “You won’t forget the game tonight?”

“No, I won’t forget the game tonight.”

“It's the Longhorns!”

“Yes, the Longhorns, Dean.” Cas shut the door. And was off.

 

The coach of the K-State team sat in his office, as he often did these days. And as he also often did these days, he took another drink. Truth be told, it was probably one too many. But the K-State coach found himself more and more consumed by a particular sort of worry these days.

Lying next to him on the floor, a very large dog emitted a whine.

Crowley reached over and scratched behind the ears of the great head. “Now, don't worry, Growley, mate. We're still the winningest team in the Midwest.” He held up his shot glass, as if in a toast. “We shall prevail!”

The dog's ears twitched, and his nose wrinkled, sniffing the air. 

“What is it, boy? Somebody frying a steak?” A small smile twisted Crowley's features.

The huge dog was on his feet, back arched, red eyes glaring at the door. He was currently emitting a growl – a low, rumbling sound – that Crowley thought he had never before heard from his admittedly rather amiable companion.

“What the Bloody hell?” Crowley turned to the door. “Alastair? Is that you? Get in here, you great twit, and quit larking about.”

There was a silence.

And then the door blew off its hinges with a great crash and a flash of light.

Crowley hit the deck, spilling good Scotch everywhere. He heard footsteps, slow and deliberate, across his floor. And then a great wrenching sound as his file drawer burst open.

He peeked up over the desk. 

“Oh no. Not you. Not you!”

 

The crowd was on their feat, roaring. 

They stomped their feet in a rhythmic pattern. Stamp, stamp, stamp-stamp, stamp.

The band vamped the chant, and the crowd erupted, “Rock! Chalk! Jayhawk! KUUUUUUU!” The last syllable echoed throughout the crowded court.

The victorious Jayhawks waved swords and pumped fists as they filed from the field.

Cas gave a half-hearted wave and slipped off in to the locker room. He hadn’t wanted to tell Dean about it, but his head really hadn’t been in the game. He had been feeling out of sorts, to be honest, since he sat down at his mother’s graveside a few days prior. 

He had to admit to himself, even though he had long suspected this outcome, he had probably held onto the slim hope that one of both of his parents would be alive and well, and that one day, they would meet.

And they would be proud of him.

Truth be told, that was probably part of the reason he’d told Bobby in no uncertain terms to halt the search for his father.

And why he found it disconcerting that he was, right now, staring at none other Rufus's friend, the strange obsessive, Frank Devereaux. Frank had been instrumental at cooking up Cas's fake identity papers as Castiel Singer, and according to Rufus, did the lion's share of the work identifying Cas's mother. He felt he should be properly grateful. The the guy still, as Sam would say, skeezed him out.

Frank gestured for Cas to follow him outside. Cas looked around, but for whatever reason, Dean hadn't made it into the locker room yet. So, reluctantly, he followed the older man outside.

“What is it?”

“You’re gonna thank me, Pumpkin. I got a line on Daddy-kins.”

Cas stared. And then he glowered. Grateful or not, this was over the line. “I told you to discontinue the search for my father,” he said, not even trying to conceal his irritation. “I do not wish to know anything about him. I have no interest.”

“I think you’ll be interested,” said Frank slyly. “I’ve got a warm body this time.”

Cas felt his heart sieze. He didn't want to know. And yet.... “He’s alive?”

“Alive and kicking. Literally. You know the place your mother worked?”

Cas gave him a sour look. “She was young. Too young.”

“That's literally true. Some of those places, they don't stick strictly to the rules. As you know. You were fighting when you were thirteen. Your mom was doing … other things.”

Cas wanted to draw his sword. “Tell me what you found out.”

Frank smiled, the cat playing with the canary. “You're mom's establishment had a close relationship with another local business. A dojo.”

Cas froze. “Which dojo?”

“I thought that would get a reaction. Hey!”

Cas was now holding Frank by the collar. “Which. Dojo?”

Frank broke into a grin. “As it happens, it's a place you know well.”

 

“You seen Cas?” Dean asked Sam.

His brother shrugged. “He brought his own car, right? He’s probably already on the way to Harvelle’s.”

Dean sighed.

“You guys have a fight or something?” asked Sam.

“No, nothing like that. He’s just started acting … I dunno, detatched. Or something.”

Sam suddenly remembered a conversation with Jess. Dammit, right again. “He’ll come around. I think it was maybe, emotional, you know? Seeing his mom?”

“I guess so.”

“So you guys are okay?”

Dean heaved a sigh. “Why would we not be okay?”

“Jess thought you might not be okay.”

“Why would Jess think we’re not okay?”

“Because … she’s a girl?”

“Where’s Cas?” piped up Jo, who had just appeared. “Are you guys okay?”

Dean glowered. “For the last time, everything is okay!”

“Then why the heck did Cas take off so fast?” asked Benny.

“What? Wait! Where did he go?”

“I seen him outside. He was talking with some funky looking old dude with big, thick glasses.”

“An old guy with…. Frank?”

“I dunno. Cas picked him up by the collar and I thought was gonna wallop him.”

“That’s gotta be Frank. Where’s Bobby?”

Several people pointed towards the stands. Dean burst out of the locker room and spotted Bobby still talking to Rufus.

Dean took the stairs two at a time. “Rufus!”

“Well, hey Dean!” 

“Where’s Cas?” asked Dean.

“That’s what we were gonna ask you,” said Bobby, looking confused. 

“And for the last time, Cas and I are okay!”

Bobby and Rufus exchanged a puzzled glance. “And why in hell wouldn’t you be okay?” asked Bobby.

Dean sighed. “Rufus, did you come here with Frank today?”

“He was here, yeah, but I haven’t seen him since the end of the match.”

“He calls me Cupcake one more time I’m gonna slice his fucking head off,” grumbled Bobby.

“Someone saw him with Cas, and then Cas took off.

Rufus put a hand to his mouth. “Shit, he didn't.”

“Didn't what? What's going on.”

Rufus looked at Bobby, apologetic. “You know, I told Frank what you said, to stop looking into Castiel's parents? But he said he was gonna go ahead anyway. I wonder if he found something?” Rufus looked back at Dean. “You know he's obsessed. With street fighting. Maybe he thought he'd get in with Cas if he had more information?”

“Even if the boy didn't want it?” asked Bobby.

“That's Frank,” sighed Rufus. “I need to tear that guy a new one.”

Dean felt the panic rising. “Shit. Cas drove his own car. He might have taken off by now.” He took off running towards the exit.

 

It wasn’t so hard to break in. There was an old tree with branches that reached up towards the second floor. Easy enough to climb. And then he didn’t even have to pick a lock, just jimmy the latch on one of the windows.

The Winchesters had taught him well.

The room he entered was dark and quiet. Cas had a quiet moment of uncertainty: now that he was here, what the hell did he intend to do? Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken off from the game. Perhaps he should have waited, and consulted Dean. Or even talked Bobby.

But he put aside such thoughts. This wasn’t their battle. This was his. 

He imagined the layout here would be more or less the same as his former home, with kitchen, common rooms and gymnasium on the ground floor, and dormitories and private rooms upstairs.

At some point, he decided that finding Samyaza’s office made sense. He imagined it was likely it would be down on the ground floor, near the gym, as Joshua’s office had been. He looked around the small room he had broken into: it looked like some kind of storeroom, loaded with carton upon carton. He paused, looking at the cartons, wishing he had thought to bring a flashlight. It was a stupid idea, coming here.

He pulled a carton from the shelf and held it near where the moonlight shown through the window. “Oh no,” he groaned, as he spotted the familiar logo for Wellman Wellies. He looked back at the room, wondering why the dojo would need racks upon racks of those terrible fake street fighter boots. Evidently the information was correct about the ties to Roman Industries. He wanted to tell Dean. He half considered simply climbing back out the window and returning to campus. But, no. He'd come too far.

He emerged into the hallway and noticed that there were bare hardwood floors. He sat down and pulled off his heavy boots, lacing them together and throwing them over his shoulder. Then, as quietly as possible, he tiptoed down the hallway, past several closed doors, and slipped down the staircase.

As he had expected the ground floor held the gymnasium and exercise area. He noticed with relief that it all appeared to be dark and deserted. Sometimes guys would get up for a midnight snack from the kitchen, or, though less likely, a perfectionist like Cas would be in the exercise area, trying to improve a move.

He entered the gym area. Despite the late hour, he decided not to turn on any lights. Fortunately the gym was ringed by a row of tall windows which let in the ample moonlight. He ghosted across the floor, threading between exercise equipment to reach the office, which he found to be locked. He hadn’t carried a lock pick along – another oversight – but managed to make do with a paperclip. 

He smiled as he heard the door click.

And then all the overhead lights switched on.

 

The old Volvo roared to life. It veered out of its parking space, early enough to beat the crowds, and chugged towards the exit.

Frank stomped on the brake, breathing hard, when the crazy guy with a sword jumped out in front of him.

He unrolled the window when he recognized the guy. “I’m on my way home, Cupcake,” he grumbled. He gulped when he felt the sword at his throat.

“What the hell did you tell Cas?” demanded Dean.

 

Cas turned and froze, hand reaching for his sword.

“Did you find your smoking gun?” grinned Samyaza.

“I’m here because you raped my mother,” said Cas. He wondered why it was so cold inside.

“Rape? Now, that's a harsh word.” 

“Samyaza. She was fourteen years old.”

“She enjoyed every second,” Samyaza told him.

Cas’s blade snapped on with a hum. 

“Why so hostile? The daughters of man, they are comely. And so we took them for our own, my brothers and me.”

“You won’t get away with it.”

Samyaza laughed. “We’ve been getting away with it for a century. Why do you think a little ant like you will have any effect?”

“I’m not an ant.”

“Well, you’re arrogant enough. You probably got that from me. Look, I’ll be frank. What I should really do right now, given what you are, and what you know, is just put a quick end to you. I mean, I’d like to string it along, as I usually do, but I don’t have time. 

“But given what you are, I’m going to make you an offer. Now, remember, this is one time only. And you turn me down, we’ll go right back to Plan A.”

Cas glared. “I won’t make any deal with you.”

“You know why we’re down here, don’t you?” Samyaza asked him. “There isn’t anything left up topside. What you call heaven. There was a war and our Father, your Grandfather, took off. So a few of us, we saw an opening, and came down here. With the mud monkeys. Yeah, the smell is bad, but you get used to it. And they're amusing. Especially the women.”

Cas tightened his grip on his sword.

“Oh, calm down. Anyway, you were a little experiment.” Samyaza pulled on the front of his shirt. “The trouble is, these bodies are like tissue paper. They're so easy to tear. And there are still so many of us – good, loyal soldiers – waiting to come on board.”

“That's why you're doping players.”

“It was a happy accident! We have to thank your friend Crowley for that. He was using it for demons. Had no idea it would work for us as well, the idiot. Well, what do you expect? He's just a demon.

“But now here you are, and here I am. And I’m stronger than ever. This vessel is good, but not ideal. But the drugs keep me strong. And immortal. Just like you’ll be.”

“I’m not taking any drugs.”

“Oh, don’t be peevish. All I'm asking is for you to be a dutiful son, and do what you're told. You’ll never miss it, leaving your pathetic human side behind. Come and become the glory that you can be.”

“You're not my father! Bobby Singer is my father!”

Samyaza paused. “What? Oh, Father, but aren't you an idiot? Well, no matter, we'll soon take care of that. Now, just come along quietly, and we'll get you a personality transplant. Come on, it won't hurt a bit. Well, actually, it will. But they don't call me Lucifer for nothing.”

Cas hesitated. But only a second.

Samyaza – Lucifer – had his sword up to meet Cas's blow. Lucifer was taller, and Cas had stupidly taken off his boots, which worsened the height difference. 

Cas didn't care. The blades met, sending sparks arcing off into the night. It was too bad really that there was no audience, as there probably would have been applause. People loved sparks. 

It was difficult, though, without a wall, fighting in the open. Lucifer seemed to be toying with him, pummeling him hard, but then backing off. Cas cursed himself for not thinking this through before rushing off. 

He espied a piece of equipment on the floor and started to try to back Lucifer towards it, but without tipping him off to what he was up to. Lucifer raised his arm for a big, showy blow, but Cas ducked under, hopping on the mount and then up onto the balance beam. Lucifer realized Cas's gambit too late and lunged, but Cas, sure-footed, leapt out of the way with a perfect layout, and then sprang off the beam … and right up onto Lucifer's shoulders.

Lucifer roared, striking blindly, trying to dislodge Cas. Cas gripped Lucifer by the hair and raised his sword.

“Stop it! Now!”

Cas froze when he heard Uriel's bellow. He turned, his heart sinking to see who Uriel and Virgil were holding.

“Dean!”

“Look at what we found sneaking around.” Uriel and Virgil had a struggling Dean Winchester between them. His face was bloody.

Cas let Lucifer wrench him off his back, and dropped down to the floor. “What the hell are you doing here, Uriel?” 

“Haven't you heard, Castiel? The old ways are out. This is a new day, a day for changing loyalties. Samyaza is our new leader, here on earth.”

“Lucifer,” corrected Cas.

“What?” asked Dean, who looked around, a little dazed, spitting blood. “Lucifer? Holy fuck.”

“Dean! Are you all right?” asked Cas.

“Oh, just dandy.”

“Just in time, Uriel,” sighed Lucifer. “This was getting boring. Now. Castiel. Be a sport and say you'll serve as a vessel, and maybe we won't lop your little friend's head off?”

“No!” said Cas. “Don't touch him.”

“They're already touching him. Lord, you're dumb as a post. Hopefully the ensoulment won't fry whatever brain cells are left.”

“No, Cas, don't do it!” said Dean. This earned him an elbow in the face from a chuckling Virgil. Dean moaned and sank to his knees.

Cas fought back tears. “I'll do it. I'll do it. Quit hurting him.”

“Quit hurting him,” mocked Lucifer, in a voice some three octaves higher than Castiel's. “Make it stop. Uriel, Virgil, give me a hand with this.” Lucifer grabbed Cas's sword and tossed it away, and then pushed him roughly down to his knees in front of him. “Let us summon Shamsiel.”

“Yes, my brother!” said Uriel excitedly as he and Virgil left Dean slumped against the wall. “What should we do, boss?” he asked Lucifer.

“Is he giving you a blow job or something first?” asked Virgil.

Cas looked up in horror.

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Oh, for.... Virgil, this is my son!”

“Oh?” asked Virgil with a bewildered expression. And then, after an uncomfortably long pause, “Oh! Then, what do you want us to do?”

“Just, stand on either side and hold him up. And try not to let him splash all over me if he explodes like the last one.”

“The last one?” asked Cas.

“You!” Lucifer told Cas as Virgil and a somewhat more reluctant Uriel grabbed Cas roughly by his upper arms. “Castiel! Say you welcome Shamsiel!” Cas nodded, and Lucifer smacked him in the face. “Say it, dimwit. Aloud!”

Cas looked over at Dean, and then told Lucifer in a small voice, “I welcome him. I welcome Shamsiel.”

There was a crackling, as the overhead lights popped and fizzled out. There was a deep humming in the room, at a timbre just too low for human ears.

Lucifer began to recite some words in Enochian. Cas looked around, trembling. He watched as a crack began to seam one of the high windows. It traced upwards, spreading out like a vine, and then the window crackled and dissolved into shards.

“Shamsiel! Steward of the legions! Come to us!” Lucifer hollered in English.

Cas gasped. His hands went to his neck. Something was squeezing the life out of him. He cried out, feeling static electricity everywhere on his body. His arms flew out to his sides as something – like a very big pair of hands – was pulling him apart. 

He tried to scream, but his throat wouldn't work. His chest was being crushed by a heavy lead weight. His eyes burned, his vision went static. He felt the smash and crash as suddenly, every single window in the room shattered to a billion pieces.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 13 of 14)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** This chapter: PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, no beta.  
 **Word Count:** 80,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter we visit Roman Enterprises, Bobby gets yet another unexpected guest, and the boys play another match.

 

Cas gasped.

But then whatever it was dropped him. He fell chin-first to the floor. 

_Himself._

Still himself.

He blinked up, his vision still blurry. 

Lucifer lay on the floor, bleeding, glaring up at Dean, who still held up the hand dumbbell with which he had just clobbered Lucifer. “Eat dirt, Satan,” Dean snarled.

Lucifer stumbled to his knees and roared at Virgil and Uriel, who stood there dumbly. ”Get him, you idiots!' And then, as a strangled scream erupted in Cas's dry throat, Uriel drew his sword. But Virgil, oddly enough, stood stock still, looking dazed. 

Cas spotted his own sword lying on the ground amid a sea of shattered glass. He stumbled over and grabbed it. He rose shakily to his feet and took a wild swing at Lucifer.

Lucifer parried with the bloody sword. “Shamsiel! Shamsiel, are you in there?” he asked Cas. “Oh, fuck, it didn't work?” He beat Cas back, as Cas stumbled on broken glass, his bare feet cut to ribbons.

“I am here!” said Virgil. “But there's someone else in here.” He suddenly twirled around, like a dog chasing his tail.

“Shamsiel?” said Lucifer. 

“Yes! It is I!” Virgil jerked one way and then the other.

“You idiot, you took the wrong vessel!”

“What?”

As Lucifer was distracted, Cas took his opening and swung at Lucifer, his movements more controlled. Lucifer parried, and then turned around to talk to Virgil. “You were supposed to end up in Castiel.”

“I wasn't going to occupy him! He's far too scrawny!” Virgil did a double take. “Wait, did I say that?”

“He's my son!” Lucifer wailed. 

Cas swung and whacked him, hard, and his shielding crackled. Lucifer went down. 

“Father. Fuck you!” Cas spat. He looked around wildly, hearing sounds now from the other parts of the dojo. He and Dean needed to get out of here, but fast, or they would definitely be goners. “Dean!” he yelled. “Everybody's waking up.”

“Yeah, I get it!” Dean yelled back. He was hiding behind a pommel horse, tossing hand weights at Uriel. “Some help here?”

Cas limped over and gave Uriel a whack on the back. Uriel whirled around, quicker than one would expect for a being his size, and knocked Cas back with the hilt of his sword. Then he charged.

Dean hopped up on the pommel horse and came down on Uriel's back, arms wrapped around the big man’s neck. Uriel spun around.

“Shielding!” Cas yelled.

Dean kicked at Uriel's belt, and his shielding clicked off just as Uriel wrested Dean from his back.

Cas attacked as Uriel screamed and fell, his body spasming from the unshielded electricity. Cas was breathing hard, his feet ached, and he wanted to throw up.

“You okay, man?” asked Dean. “Can you get out of here?”

“You're not going anywhere!” said Virgil, who grabbed both boys by their collars.

“Shamsiel!” said Cas.

“What?” asked Virgil, who suddenly dropped them and looked around, confused.

“Come on!” Cas ordered Dean. They made a break for the broken windows, Cas leaving a trail of bloody footprints in the parking lot as they raced to Dean's car.

 

Cas cringed as Coach Henricksen, cigarette dangling from his mouth, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and casually poured it over his bleeding feet. He was sitting in the middle of the Roadhouse, on top of a pool table that had been draped with towels, among assorted teammates and friends.

“Too bad you don't need stitches,” said Henricksen. “I tie a mean square knot!”

“I should ground the both of you idjits,” stormed Bobby, who was dabbing at various cuts and bruises on Dean’s face, much to Dean’s apparent annoyance. “What were you thinking? I oughta pull your asses off the team for this.”

“No, let 'em play, just take 'em out of classes,” suggested Henricksen cheerfully.

“You're a load of charm, aren't you, Vic?” asked Ellen, who had just come up with bandages.

Bobby huffed and puffed. “So again, from the beginning, Cas. Samyaza is Lucifer himself, and he wanted you to play ventriloquist dummy for some angel named Shamsiel?”

“It didn't work,” muttered Cas as Victor merrily would gauze around his feet.

“Hey, join the club,” said Gordon, who was watching, his arm around Jo, seemingly oblivious to the hairy eyeball he was getting from Ellen.

“You weren't a good vessel, Gordo?” asked Benny.

“I apparently scared off the demon,” laughed Gordon.

Cas sighed and winced. “The angel thought I was unsuitable. He rejected me.”

“It doesn't matter, Cas, as long as you're back here, safe with us,” said Dean.

Cas turned to Dean, blinking back tears. “Dean! You don't understand! None of you understand! I'm not human!”

“It's a little weeeeeird!” Charlie agreed. Pamela whacked her on the back of the head. “Ow!”

“Kid,” said Bobby. “You bleed when you're cut, you make dumb ass decisions, and you spend too damn much time glued to Dean. Believe me, you're human enough.”

“Bobby....”

“You're gonna have to stand in for him in the next game, Gordo,” said Dean. “There's no way he's playing on those feet.”

“I can play!” Cas protested.

“Hey! I thought you weren't human, kid,” Bobby told him, handing over a bag of frozen peas to Dean. 

Cas sulked. “I can still play!” 

“You're not playing,” Dean told Cas.

“You,” Bobby barked at Dean. “Keep those danged peas on your face. It’ll keep the swelling down. You,” he told Cas, “sit the fuck down.” 

There was a sound like the whoosh of air. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” howled Crowley, who had just appeared in the middle of the bar in a puff of acrid sulfurous smoke.

Suddenly, every sword in the place was poised and humming.

“What?” said Crowley.

“And what the hell are _you_ doing here, demon?” demanded Dean. 

Crowley turned to face him. “They exorcised my entire team!”

“Wait, who exorcised them?” asked Bobby.

“What's wrong with exercisin'?” asked Benny.

“The players were all demons,” Dean told him.

Benny’s eyes went wide. “We were fightin' demons?” he asked, grabbing at his crucifix.

“Yes, please try and keep up with the rest of the class,” tutted Crowley. “They sent a batch of those wretched angels over to my university, where I was busily minding my own business.”

“Cheating,” said Bobby.

“As I said,” sniffed Crowley. “Like the fine upstanding citizen I am. They raided my files and now every single one of my players is- is a student!” The last part of the sentence was choked out with much disgust.

“Well, that's too damned bad,” laughed Henricksen. “You mean your kids are going to have to actually practice?”

Crowley glared at the opposing coach, his eyes slits. “This isn't at all funny, Henricksen! Besides, you should talk. Do they know about your former career?”

“He's a street fighter,” said Dean.

“An incredibly good one,” Cas added, to Henricksen's smirk.

“Wait, what?” asked Benny.

“Dude, I think we need to pop some popcorn!” Ash put in.

“Look, we gotta get those guys off Cas!” said Dean. “Samyaza or Lucifer who whoever the fuck he is messed up their ritual, but I'm sure they're gonna try again.”

“Is that what happened to you two?” asked Crowley, suddenly eyeing Cas and Dean.

“We got jumped by Lucifer and a couple of his goons,” said Dean.

Crowley, as he often did, looked shrewd. “May I ask specifically _which_ goons?”

Cas was painfully trying to ease his feet into a pair of clean socks. “Uriel. And Virgil.” 

“Although I think Virgil is out of commission. In terms of goon-dom,” Dean put in with a smile.

“You're thinking up something, ain't you, Crowley?” asked Bobby.

“Wait, do we trust this guy?” Dean asked him.

Crowley scoffed. “Of course bloody not! I'm a demon. Are you stupid?”

“Demons: they ain't much at social niceties,” said Bobby, “but they're terrific plotters. Tell us what you have in mind, Crowley?”

“Boys,” said Crowley, “and lovely ladies. It's high time you started thinking big.”

 

It was a meeting of the board of Roman Enterprises. Dr. Gaines, the current Director of Scientific Operations, was busily flipping through his Blackberry device, in the middle of an intense game of Words with Friends.

It was more interesting than the board meeting, anyway. 

He glanced up as the door burst open. Protestors? That was weird, as Dick usually had them dismembered before they made it this far. The group was heavily armed, which was probably the reason they had made it into the boardroom.

The leader, a slight young man with an unruly mop of dark hair, hopped up onto the conference table and marched boldly across it, his heavy dueling boots scattering meeting minutes and Gantt charts as he strode. 

He stopped in front of Dick Roman. 

“Well, that was out of the box thinking, I'll give you that,” said Roman, pushing his chair back and blinking up at the newcomer. 

“I'm Castiel-”

“I know who you are, young man,” said Dick, standing up and looking around at the camera phones and trying to make sure they got a good angle on him. “You're the famous Avenging Angel. Good to see you've pulled yourself up by your bootstraps to make something of yourself, despite your tragic, tragic past.”

“What tragic past?” asked Cas, tilting his head with feigned confusion. “I'm a champion prize fighter and a straight-A student.”

Dick looked a little flustered. But only a little. “Well, an orphan, abandoned at birth....”

“I'm not an orphan. My mother is dead. But my father is very much alive. And working for you. So I hear.”

“Working for- What?” Now Dick was the one who was confused.

“Samyaza. Or you may know him by his other name: _Lucifer_.” This got some muttering from the board members.

Dick began to sputter. “I have no knowledge at this point in time-”

“Do you or do you not currently sit on the board of directors of an illegal street fighting dojo?” asked Cas.

Dr. Gaines held up his phone to better picture Dick Roman's reaction. 

Dick reacted by swiftly igniting his blade and beheading the unlucky Dr. Gaines. Dr. Gaines, unfortunately, did not get his shot, but several others did. 

“Street fighting is _legal_ … in parts of Nevada,” Roman muttered.

“The dojo is in Kansas.”

Roman gazed up at Cas, obviously annoyed to be doing so. “So, are you or are you not challenging me?”

Sam stepped forward. “As specified in your by-laws, subsection 3/c/iii, Mr. Singer would like to challenge you for Chairmanship of Roman Enterprises's Board of Directors.”

“I accept. But of course you know, you won't be fighting me, but rather, my appointed surrogate, as also specified by the by-laws.”

Cas hopped down just as none other than Uriel stepped into the room. He smiled predatorily at Cas, who, oddly, looked back at Dean. 

“Is that the guy?” asked Cas.

“You know who I am!” Uriel told Cas.

Dean nodded. “That's the guy.”

“The one who hit you?”

Dean rubbed his eye, which was still bruised and swollen. “Yes.”

Cas turned calmly to face Dick Roman. “And you will be facing _my_ surrogate, Mr. Roman.”

“Who?” asked Uriel.

The lights dimmed and crackled. There was a soft sound, like whispering wings.

And there stood Balthazar, sword poised. “You have drawn innocent blood, Uriel,” he said.

Uriel, who suddenly looked terrified, drew his blade. And a whole lot of cell phone cameras flashed.

 

“We can't divest everything!” wailed Crowley as Sam bent over the computer in a room in the suite of offices that, until a few moments ago, had been the domain of Richard Roman.

“We're gonna divest everything,” said Bobby.

“Can't you let me be an evil corporate CEO for even a day?”

Across the room, Frank and Charlie were also bent over computers. “Wow, they had holdings in the Cayman Islands?” said Charlie.

“Wait, where did you find that?” demanded Frank. Charlie irritably hid her screen from him. “Hey, she's not letting me look!”

“You two, cut it out,” Dean scolded.

“It looks like most of Dick's activities are confined to the past year or so,” Sam told Bobby, Dean, and Cas, who were gathered around. “It's strange. He went from being a normal corrupt businessman to a megalomaniac very suddenly.

“You think he turned?” asked Dean. “Like, he's a demon or something.”

“He's no demon,” sniffed Crowley.

“No, he is the most venal species, he is human,” said Cas with a kind of firmness.

“You can tell?” asked Dean.

Cas nodded, looking thoughtful. “I always thought it was the fighting. That it allowed me to gauge of my opponents. But I see now that I have a sense for supernatural beings.”

“So what are we doing?” asked Sam.

Cas spread his hands. “You are going to hunt down every subsidiary involved in the manufacture or distribution of PerFormaT and shut them all down. The rest of the businesses will be spun off. We are dissolving Roman Enterprises, once and for all.”

Crowley groaned. “I am coach of a losing team, and I am now giving away untold wealth. You know I'm gonna lose my union card for this.”

“You two! Do I gotta come over there!” warned Dean as Frank and Charlie began to wrestle over a laptop.

“I can offer assistance with your team, Crowley,” said Cas.

“What do you mean?”

“I think I can find a suitable … assistant coach.” Cas frowned and shifted his feet.

“Hey, Mr. Chairman,” said Dean. Cas looked at him as Dean grabbed him by the upper arm. “Bobby, you think you can keep things under control here for a minute?”

“It would be a pleasure,” said Bobby, rubbing his hands together. 

“And if Balthazar comes back, please tell him to come see me?” said Cas.

“Heh. I think Balthy is finding a good pike for Uriel’s head.”

“That was a little messy,” Dean admitted as he led Cas into the adjoining office. 

Cas immediately collapsed onto the couch, where he started to unbuckle his boots. “I’ve seen messier.”

Dean plopped down next to Cas, “You okay?”

Cas sighed. “My feet are bothering me. And I don’t want to be a CEO. I want to fight.”

“You’re chairman of the board, not a CEO.”

“Whatever.” Cas pulled off his other boot and rubbed his feet. 

“And you looked really hot up there on the table.”

Cas looked around in surprise, and Dean kissed him. Cas didn’t object, but then pulled away. “Should we be doing this here?”

“I’m trying to distract you from the terrible pain,” Dean laughed. “Plus, you’re not gonna have to be chairman or CEO or Grand Poobah or whatever for long, since we’re breaking up your company.”

“Dean,” said Cas. “I'm not human.”

“Yeah, I know!”

Dean was still hovering very close. Cas blinked in surprise. “And, you find this … arousing?”

“Oh fuck yeah.”

“Do you find everything arousing?”

“I think when it involves you.” Dean shaking his head. “Sort of. Yeah. Hey, I made you smile.”

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to … accept me, Dean. You didn’t know what you were getting into.”

“Dude, you wanna know something? That first day – that very first day – do you remember that? When me and Sam chased you down? I saw you guys get out of the car.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, you and Gabe. And I thought, there he goes, walking away. And then I thought, oh, no fucking way I’m gonna let that happen!”

Cas was definitely smiling now. 

“But, I don’t understand why you don’t believe me, Cas. You’re a fucking champion!”

“I’m strange, Dean. I didn’t fully understand how strange until now.”

“What, because of your relatives? Hey, wait until you meet our dad!”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Benny stuck his head in, big grin on his face. “Hey, we ain’t interrupting anything?”

“Our chairman needed a pep talk,” said Dean, as Cas blushed and began to pull his boots back on. “What’s up?”

“Brother, you will never guess what me and Ash just found on our perambulations!” said Benny.

“Behold! The storeroom from hell!” said Ash, which really didn’t answer the question, and so Dean and Cas followed them into the depths of the headquarters. Dean stopped short at the doorway: the room was stacked from floor to ceiling with carton upon carton upon carton of the world’s worst footwear: Wellman Wellies. 

“I hate these fucking things!” said Dean, picking up a carton.

“So, my idea was a bonfire!” said Benny. “Though my colleague, Ash, evidently favors a tactical nuclear device.”

“No kidding, I know some guys. Imagine the good done for humanity,” said Ash.

“Find a pair in your size, Cas?” asked Dean as Cas used his sword to nick open a carton and then went rummaging inside for a pair of boots. He pulled them out, staring at them, and then pulled the stuffing from out of the center of the boot.

“They had many boxes of these shoes at Lucifer’s dojo,” he said, reaching his hand inside the boot. He pulled out his hand. There was a baggie full of white powder in the very bottom.

“Well well well!” said Benny. “Just like Cracker Jacks. It comes with a prize inside.”

“PerFormaT?” asked Dean.

“That would be my guess,” said Cas, holding up the baggie.

“No wonder Charlie couldn’t tell where this stuff goes. It gets stuffed into crappy shoes.”

“I think we should take Ash and Benny’s suggestion,” said Cas, tossing the package back in the pile. 

“Nuke the room?” asked Dean. “You guys up for that?”

From Ash and Benny’s expressions, he didn’t have to ask twice.

“Cas!” said Jo, poking her head in the storeroom. “Roman is in the office. He wants to talk to you before he goes.”

Cas and Dean strode off with her. They found Dick Roman in the board room, flanked by Balthazar and Gabriel. He was holding a cardboard box full of office supplies, and under his arm had a large fuzzy purple whale plush toy, which emitted a high-pitched squeak when pressed. Crowley, Sam, Frank, Bobby and Charlie were still in the room, hunched over various computers and laptops.

“I must credit you, Castiel. You’ve won this round.”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “I’ve won the war, Mr. Roman.”

“Oh, really?”

“We’ve found you subsidiaries in the Cayman Islands,” Cas told him.

“And the British Virgin Islands!” Charlie piped up.

“And the Isle of Man,” said Frank.

“San Marino,” said Bobby. “And the Seychelles.”

“And Liechtenstein!” said Sam.

Dick Roman looked considerably less pleased. He sagged, and the whale emitted a squeak.

“You got a choice, Dick,” said Dean, who was quite obviously savoring his words. “Now that we’ve grabbed all your money, we could also smash your reputation by telling everybody how you’re involved in street fighting.”

“It’s not illegal in parts of Nevada!” Dick protested.

“Or you could supply some information,” said Cas. “How many dojos are getting Wellman Wellies?”

“All of them,” said Dick proudly.

Cas and Gabriel looked at each other. “Wait,” said Gabriel. “All of them?”

“All of the training facilities on the World Street Fighting Title circuit. Yes.”

“And, you’re the only supplier?” asked Dean.

“Young man, have you any respect for intellectual property? Of course. PerFormaT is protected by no less than sixteen patents. I have one of the awards here,” he added, taking a little acrylic plate shaped like a sword out of his cardboard box.

“Okay, hotshot,” said Bobby. “So, what happens if somebody turns off the faucet for that crap?”

Dick Roman grinned. It was chilling. “You’re talking about the special players, aren’t you? The most highly trained ones?”

“The fallen angels, yeah.”

“Oh, I’ve been witness to it. Dreadful thing. Just dreadful.” Dick Roman tsk-ed. The whale under his arm squeaked.

Gabriel snatched the whale from Roman. He tossed it up in the air and sliced it in two with his sword.

“That was my personal property!” Roman protested. 

“Get him out of here,” said Cas. 

“You’ll be hearing from my attorney!” Dick Roman yelled as Balthazar and Gabriel hustled him out of the building.

“Cas,” said Dean. “You know Benny and Ash’s Wellman Wellies bonfire?”

“Yeah?” said Cas.

“Dean!” shouted Sam. “You’re not getting an idea, are you?”

“Have them hold off,” Dean told Cas. “I got an idea.”

 

It was a tired group of men that straggled back to Singer Salvage that night.

They found the gate wide open.

Bobby pulled the truck to the side of the road and got out, along with Cas. Dean and Sam, following in the Impala, stopped as well. “What the hell, Bobby?” asked Dean.

“I got this place warded against anything on heaven or earth,” said Bobby. 

“It’s not my brother again, is it?” asked Cas.

“We left his ass back at Roman Enterprises,” said Dean.

“Whatever it is, we go in armed,” said Bobby, pulling out his sidearm. 

The front door of Bobby’s house had been left wide open as well. “Balls! Who the hell got past my defenses? I’ll murder the bastard.”

Cas sniffed the air. “Is that … steak?”

“It's just you being a garbage gut,” Dean told him.

They ended up spreading out, Bobby and Sam going around the back door, Dean and Cas at the front. “You stick close to me, hear?” Dean told Cas.

“I should go in first.”

“No. I know this house. I need you at my back in case something wants to kill me.”

Cas nodded grimly. And the signal, Dean rushed in Cas right in back of him. They hurried through the mud room, into the living room.

Cas sniffed the air. “I swear I smell-”

“Cas!” Dean stopped short when he saw the figure sitting on the couch. 

“Dean,” said the man – who very much appeared to be just that, a stocky, dark-haired, forty-something man. “Have you had dinner? I bought us some steaks.”

Bobby and Sam burst into the room, swords poised.

“Oh, shit,” said Sam.

“Balls!” Bobby added for good measure.

Dean sighed and lowered his sword. “Cas. This is my dad. This is John Winchester.”

“Goddammit, John,” said Bobby, who went over to shake his hand. “You coulda just called.”

“Bobby! Something big has come up. Angels! And demons!”

Sam rolled his eyes. “We know, Dad.”

“What? You do? You know about the street fighting circuit?”

“Yeah, Dad,” said Dean. “It’s been taken over by fallen angels.”

John’s attention had drifted over to Cas. “Do I know you?”

“This is Cas, Dad. The Avenging Angel.”

“I’m … gonna go check on the steaks,” said Sam a little too loudly. He hurried out of the room.

John Winchester stopped short. He stared at Cas. He began to say one thing, and then another, and then another. He finally said, “You have a street fighter here? Under _my_ roof?”

“Ain’t your roof, John,” grumbled Bobby.

“Dean,” his father told him. “We don’t associate with that sort of people.

“We do now, Dad,” said Dean. 

“Dean,” cautioned Bobby.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

John, red-faced, made to hit Dean but ended up on the floor, when Cas, quick as a wink, charged in front of Dean and punched him smack in the jaw.

“Uh. I’m sorry Dean,” said Cas, shaking out his fist and looking back and forth between father and son. 

“Hey! What did I miss?” asked Sam, who had rushed back into the room.

“Your dad being a idjit,” said Bobby dryly. John had managed to prop himself up on his elbows. Bobby offered a hand, and then elder Winchester got, somewhat shakily, to his feet.

“You got a hell of a right,” said John, feeling his jaw. 

“Kid,” Bobby told Cas. “You’re under my roof. Next time, you let me clobber him?”

“I didn’t draw my sword, Bobby,” said Cas. “If I had, Mr. Winchester would no longer be conscious,” he added, glaring at John.

“Boys, you all go and put your weapons away in the mudroom,” said Bobby sternly. “I'll have no more fighting under my roof, hear? Cas, you check on dinner. Sam and Dean, set the damn table. And no chipped mugs, use the good stuff, we got a guest.” Everyone stood and stared for a moment, so he barked, “Now! Get a move on.”

Sparing one last withering glance at John, Cas complied, the Winchester brothers hurrying after him. 

Bobby and John watched them go. “I knew I’d have it out with Sam. I didn’t expect this from Dean.”

Bobby smiled. “That boy was nine years old when he landed on my doorstep, John. May I point out things mighta changed somewhat?”

John rounded on his friend. “That’s not fair. I never dumped them with you, Bobby.”

“Oh really? You left that boy with a twenty dollar bill and a baby brother in a place with no heat in January.”

“Bobby. There’s a bigger picture here. You know that.”

“There’s two boys in the kitchen. Three now. That’s a big enough picture for me.” Bobby studied his old friend, noticing for the first time the lines he hadn’t seen before, the hollow spots under his eyes. His voice soft, he asked, “You gonna tell those boys about that business with your ticker?”

John’s hand reached up unconsciously to cover his heart, his expression shifted to sadness for a fraction of a second. And then his face hardened. “No, Bobby. And you’re not gonna tell them either.”

“John-“

“None of that.” John thumped his chest. “I had an … incident, but I’m good for another 30,000 miles. No need to worry my boys.”

“Then that ain’t why you’re here?”

John shook his head. “No. The reason I’m here is I got a lead on Yellow Eyes. I may have finally tracked him down.”

“Well, for your sake, we’ll hope that’s true,” said Bobby, leading John into the dining room.

 

Tempers seemed to have cooled after a big dinner was set before them. John ate heartily of the steak and Cas’s mashed potatoes, but had left his salad untouched. Sam, without asking, grabbed John’s salad bowl and poured the contents onto his own plate while Dean dug into the potatoes once again.

“These are addictive,” he commented.

“Heavy cream,” said Cas, slicing up his steak with great efficiency.

“You’re gonna burst our arteries, kid,” said Bobby, who nonetheless gestured for the bowl of potatoes from Dean.

“I’m sorry. It usually wasn’t an issue … where I’m from.”

“Were you a fighter or a short order cook?” asked John, dark eyebrows knitting in a scowl.

Cas started to answer, but Dean cut in, “Dad. A dojo's like a firehouse. They all cook.”

John studied Cas, who met his stare. “And why don’t you have the hair?” he asked, gesturing to the top of his head.

“I did,” said Cas.

“He cut it,” said Dean.

“I was defeated.”

“I defeated him!” 

Cas smiled affectionately at Dean, his hand unconsciously going to his hair, making it even more of a tangle.

“My son … fought a street fighter?” asked John.

“He's on the team, Dad!”

“You oughta get down and see you boy play, John,” Bobby interjected with a studied casualness. “See _both_ of them.”

“Sam too?” asked John. Sam shrugged and went back to his salad. “I thought you quit fencing?” There was an awkward silence, as four of the five people in the room remembered the knockdown, drag out fight that had followed Sam's decision.

Dean cleared his throat. “We’re playing TTU on Friday night,” he told his father. “It’s a home game. How long are you here for this time?”

“I hadn’t planned to stay long,” John muttered, and Dean’s face fell. “I think I have a lead on Yellow Eyes. A good one.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, Dean frowning, Sam rolling his eyes. Dean mouthed at Sam, _“Don’t say it.”_

“I think he may even be on staff at KU,” John continued, obliviously slicing at his steak. “You boys’s school!”

There was a knock at the door, and Sam was up instantly. “I’ll get it,” he said, sparing an exasperated look for his father before he left.

“Hey, Sammy!” came Gabriel’s voice, and soon he and Balthazar were bustling into the kitchen. “I hope we’re not interrupting dinner, and if so, you got some extra steaks for us.”

“I’ll get you a plate, Gabriel” said Cas, rising and heading for the kitchen. Gabriel immediately sat down at Cas’s plate and started sawing into his steak. “Bring me two!” he called. “Are these your mashed potatoes? Damn, Balthy, sit down and eat, this is heavenly.”

Balthazar inclined his head politely at Bobby, who told him, “Yeah, no problem, always room for a couple more.” 

Sam darted out and came back with a couple of extra chairs, although Gabriel showed no sign of moving from his brother's spot. “Do I know you, buddy?” he smacked to John, as the older man was staring at him.

“Hey, sorry. Gabriel. Balthazar. This is our dad. This is John Winchester,” said Dean.

“Meetcha,” muttered Gabriel through a mouth full of mashed potatoes.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Winchester,” said Balthazar. “You should be very proud of your boys.”

“Gabe and Balthy, they’re Cas’s people,” said Bobby. “From his dojo.”

“You’re both street fighters?” asked John.

“I’m retired and he just pretends,” said Gabriel, pointing his steak knife towards Balthazar.

“Balthazar is an angel, Dad,” said Sam, who was studying his father.

“Semi-retired,” said Balthazar, who was helping himself to a glass of iced tea from the pitcher.

John's mouth attempted to form words, but the elder Winchester was momentarily struck dumb.

“How are things at our dojo?” Cas asked as he came out of the kitchen bearing two fresh steaks. He set one down in front of Balthazar and then, after a glance at Gabriel, sat down in an empty chair and began to tuck in to the other.

“Hey! That’s my steak!” said Gabriel, reaching for the plate.

“Possession is nine tenths of the law!” answered Cas, pulling it back.

“There was a certain amount of confusion at first,” said Balthazar, tugging Gabriel back to his seat by his collar. “But I believed they reacted well, overall, to the introduction of the new management team.”

“We brought along your coach,” said Gabriel.

“Henricksen?” asked Dean. “Oh, I bet that was good.”

“Yeah, and he gives them a speech about no more doping,” Gabriel smacked. “While he’s chain-smoking.”

“That’s our coach,” said Sam.

“And what about Crowley’s K-State players?” asked Dean.

Balthazar’s face lit up. “They are actually quite talented, although they are understandably disoriented. But they are receptive to coaching. I actually haven’t felt so needed in an awfully long time.”

“Knew you’d be a great coach, Balthy,” said Gabe, who was trying once again to filch some of Cas’s steak.

“You’re the Trickster,” John, who finally had recovered his voice, said to Gabriel.

“Ding ding ding!” said Gabriel, who was grinning from ear to ear. 

“I saw you fight,” said John.

“You saw a tape?” asked Cas, letting his head list to the side.

“I saw you fight,” John repeated. “I was there. It was you. Your partner was some tiny kid.” He held his hand a tiny kid's-length up from the ground.

Gabriel and Cas exchanged an amused glance. “That was Cas,” said Gabriel.

John pushed his chair back and stared frankly at Cas. 

“I grew,” said Cas shrugging his shoulders and blushing.

“You've been to a street fight, John?” asked Dean.

John suddenly became interested in his mashed potatoes once again. “It was part of an investigation,” he muttered. Dean looked over at Sam, who rolled his eyes and pushed his wide shoulders into a shrug. Dean stared down at his half-eaten steak, suddenly finding he was losing his appetite. His father, it appeared, had seen Cas fight more often lately than his own sons.

 

At a certain point in the evening the guests had departed, the dishes had been washed and put away, some residents of Bobby’s house had quietly headed upstairs to bed. 

None remained in the living room but the three Winchester men.

“Son,” said John from a nest of blankets on the couch.

Dean stretched. “Yeah, John. I gotta get to bed. It’s a big day tomorrow.”

John actually looked uncertain. “We should … catch up. There’s been a lot going on.”

Dean stared at his father. 

“Yeah, we could get you caught up, John,” said Sam, who was standing on the stairway landing. “We could sit down and chit-chat all night. And then you'll pick up and leave. Which is what you do.” And he turned and marched up the stairs.

“Dad…” said Dean. “Maybe … maybe later. Okay. If you’re around?”

John gestured noncommittally.

“Good night, Dad,” said Dean, who was now himself on the stairs.

John did not answer. 

 

“So let's see,” said Dean as Frank set up the laptop. Rufus, Bobby, Sam and Cas also crowded around the computer in the Jayhawks’s cramped locker room. 

The laptop’s small speakers emitted the sound of a roaring crowd. The men watched as street fighters entered the cage, the championship team first, as was the tradition, and then the challengers. 

“What’s wrong with that guy?” Dean asked, pointing to a fighter who looked a little under the weather.

“Wait for it,” said Rufus, grinning slyly.

The match proceeded. It wasn’t as exciting as watching Cas and Gabe, Dean decided. In fact, as little as he knew about street fighting, everybody looked a little off.

And then one of the guys was a little slow getting his sword up after he’d hitched some wall and landed wrong, and his opponent struck and….

_SPLAT!_

“Holy crap!” said Dean. The men gawped as the camera actually shook and refocused. The three surviving fighters suddenly found themselves drenched in the splattered remains of the guy who’s been hit. “He’s chunky soup. Swords don't do that!”

“That’s pretty gross,” Sam agreed.

Grinning, Frank, stopped the video. “There have been reports of circumstances like this all up and down the circuit,” Rufus told them. “This is one of the … more spectacular, admittedly. But wait until you see this. Hit it Frank.”

Frank pushed play once again. The dead man’s teammate stumbled back. Dean at first thought he was going to vomit. But then he threw his head back and suddenly his eyes and mouth and even his nose lit up with a strange glow. It suddenly flashed incredibly bright as the other fighters shrunk away and shielded their eyes. Then the man sunk down to his knees, looking completely disoriented.

“Looks like his angel ran away,” said Bobby. 

“Yeah. We think the remaining ones are going to start abandoning their vessels,” said Rufus.

Sam clapped his brother on the back. “And that’s what happens when you substitute powdered sugar for the drugs in the Wellman Wellies?” he asked. “I gotta hand it to you, Dean. When you have an idea, you have an idea.”

Dean grinned. “We just sent along their normal shipment of boots. Like they were expecting.”

“At this rate, we might just be able to wait ‘em out!” said Bobby.

“I don’t think so,” said Cas quietly.

“Why not, Cas?”

Cas shrugged. “I don’t know, Dean, I just have a … feeling. About my biological father.”

Dean looked concerned, but listened to the stomping rhythm coming from the next room. “Whatever, we got a game to go to now. You two!” he told Cas and Sam. “No explosions!” Sam grinned, but Cas looked confused. “Come on!” Dean put one arm around Sam’s shoulders and another around Cas’s and marched them out into the stadium. The crowd stomped and roared, shouted and cat-called, danced and waved signs and threw popcorn.

Cas looked up, seeming stunned.

“Dean,” Sam whispered to his brother. Dean followed Sam’s eye line up into the crowd.

There, sitting next to Bobby. It was their father. John Winchester smiled and held up a hand. Dean gawped, and silently held up his own in greeting. 

“First match the old bastard has attended since high school,” Sam muttered.

“Hey, good of you ladies to make it!” came a female voice. Pamela popped up from where she had been sitting on the bench. She was wearing an eye patch which, though it didn’t feature a skull and crossbones, still looked stylish.

“You playing?” asked Dean.

“Try and stop me,” she told him. “We win this one, we’re in the finals.”

“We’re gonna win,” said Meg, who was quite suddenly hovering at Pamela’s side. She nudged Pamela, and they both took their seats. Castiel stared after them.

“What?” Dean asked him.

“Something just struck me…” said Cas. “Later. After the match.”

 

As it turned out, Dean couldn’t hear himself think after the match. 

He stood, absolutely struck dumb, as Benny and Ash hoisted Pamela to their shoulders and carted her off the field to the roar and stomp of the frenzied crowd screaming KU!

“Post-season!” shouted Sam, who swallowed Dean in a bear hug. And then he set down Dean and ran to the low wall dividing the stands from the court, where he caught Jess as she hopped into his arms and then they both did a little drunken victory dance.

“Is everything all right, Dean?” Dean hadn’t noticed Cas was standing quietly by his side.

“I saw our dad up in the stands,” said Dean, peering into the crowd. But John was no longer in sight.

Cas seemed to read his friend's mood. “Perhaps your father has already headed to Harvelle’s?” he ventured, although he sounded less than certain.

Dean frowned, and, without a word, stalked off towards the exit.

 

“So, you’re taking off?”

John hesitated. He shut the door of his car, and leaned his elbows on the hood. “Yeah, I’m taking off.”

“Well, okay. But dude, you suck at goodbyes,” said Dean. He scowled and turned to go.

John paused, resting a hip on the fender of his car. “You want some kinda touching father-son moment here?”

“What, with you, John? How about at least a, ‘Goodbye, I’m fucking off now.’”

“I could give you the goodbye speech. But I don’t think you’d like to hear.”

“Try me.”

“Castiel. It’s obvious you like him. But I don’t know if he’s right for you.”

“Yeah, well-“

“I told you.”

“Go on.”

John threw his hands up, looking up to the sky. “Dammit. Why is it, when you’ve got ten good choices, you always go for number eleven?”

“I dunno. Take after you?”

“I don’t know what you want.”

“Twenty-one years. And most of that time, all I got from you is twenty bucks, and ‘Take care of your brother.”

“You want the twenty?” asked John, giving a half-smile and pretending to reach for his wallet.

“I just thought there might be … more, you know?”

“Maybe there isn’t,” said John. He pulled open the car door once again.

“All right.” Dean had vowed not to cry, but he felt himself welling up. He grimaced and wiped an eye on his sleeve.

“Goodbye, Dean.” John stared over Dean’s shoulder and nodded.

Dean glanced back to see where John had been looking. He hadn’t heard Cas come up behind him, but he stood there now, silent as a sentinel, staring at John. Dean heard the car’s engine turn over and looked back to see John Winchester driving off.

Sam came walking up, Jess on his arm. “Hey! Was that Dad?” asked Sam.

“He says goodbye. No, not really,” sighed Dean. He jammed his hands in his pants pockets.

“Hey, Dean. How do you like my shoes?” asked Jess, who posed her feet.

She was wearing a pair Wellman Wellies.

Purple ones.

While Cas stared, utterly perplexed, Dean started choking. And then then he was doubled over laughing. 

“You took one of the boxes at Roman?” asked Cas.

“I couldn't resist.”

“Those are beautiful, Jess,” laughed Dean. “Abso-fucking-lutly the most stylish shoes ever.”

 

Dean drifted off, not really sleeping. Cas was lying on top of him, snoring softly. Dean put an affectionate hand through his soft, dark hair. It was a comfort to have Cas here, after the shit with his father. After all these years, John's goodbyes hadn't gotten any easier. 

He heard the door creek and looked up in confusion. Cas stirred as well. 

Sam was hovering over the bed, cell phone in hand, looking concerned. 

“Wassup?” muttered Dean, squinting at the bedside alarm clock.

“Dean.”

Cas was sitting up as well, rubbing his eyes.

“What is it Sammy?”

“Dean.” Sam sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “It's Jess.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Title:** Code Duello (Part 14 of 14, complete)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** This chapter: PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Bobby, Gabriel, Victor, Charlie, Pamela, Benny, Ash, Jo/Gordon, Ellen, Uriel, Zachariah, Joshua, Balthazar, Chuck/Becky, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, no beta, **character death.**  
 **Word Count:** 80,000 total  
 **Summary:** The duel of honor is still the law of the land: grievances large and small are settled by means of electrified swords that can be honed to incredible sharpness. When Dean Winchester, captain of the University of Kansas fencing team, finds himself one player short at the beginning of the season, he recruits Castiel, a mysterious boy trained from birth to compete in high stakes illegal sword fighting competitions.  
 **Notes:** In this chapter … well, I’m not going to spoil it. Just go read.

 

Dean yawned and stretched and regarded the small group of hog-tied street fighters with curiosity.

The residents of Bobby’s Singer’s house had been hauled out of bed at an ungodly hour by the frantic call from Jess, but had arrived at the Harvelle place to find the situation well in hand, as Jess, Jo, Ellen, Pamela, Charlie and Meg, all still in their pajamas, stood guard on the interlopers, who were now lying around Ellen’s driveway like so much discarded patio furniture. It was three guys, all larger than life. Dean recognized the biggest one, Virgil.

“So, you gals were havin' a slumber party?” asked Bobby.

“Yeah, and Jess noticed someone followed her here,” Jo told them. 

“That'll teach you guys to threaten my lady!” grinned Sam, draping an arm around Jess, who stared steely-eyed at the prisoners, sword in hand, fuzzy slippers on her feet.

“My whole family is cops! And you didn't think I could defend myself?” Jess asked them. “Assholes!”

“Who knew that Smurfette could handle a sword?” sighed Virgil. And then his expression completely shifted and he said, sternly, “You should have known, idiot.”

“And what the fuck is wrong with Gollum here?” asked Meg. “He’s been talking to himself since he got here.”

“He is currently possessed by both the angel Virgil and the angel Shamsiel,” explained Cas.

“What?”

Cas sighed. “It's a long story. My father, Lucifer, was trying to use me as a vessel for Shamsiel. But Shamsiel chose Virgil instead.”

“You're too damn scrawny,” grumbled what was evidently the Shamsiel half of Virgil. “You need to get out,” Virgil wailed. “It's too crowded in here.”

“Hey, I would occupy Cas,” Meg told him. “Any time!”

“Oh, uh, thank you Meg,” said Cas, who seemed a bit dubious about the idea.

“Don't get any ideas,” grumbled Dean, who was glaring at Meg.

“By the way, Meg,” said Cas quietly. “You were on Crowley's team. May I assume-?”

Meg shrugged and actually appeared a little sheepish. “Yeah, you got me. I'll give her back at the end of the school year.”

 _“What?”_ Dean mouthed at Cas, who mouthed back, _“Later.”_

“Well, it looks like you gals got the situation well in hand,” said Bobby. 

“I called Jess's people to haul these guys away,” grumbled Ellen, pulling her bathrobe more tightly around herself. “They don't exactly light up my driveway.”

“If you guys only knew,” laughed Virgil. “But they're too stupid,” he replied to himself.

“Knew what?” asked Dean.

“We're a diversion. Oh, don't tell them that! If I don't, how can we gloat! That's what villains are supposed to do. I thought we were the heroes?”

“Will somebody shut this guy up?” asked Jo.

“No, wait,” said Dean. He crouched down next to Virgil. “A diversion from what?”

“What we're doing back at Lucifer’s dojo. No, shut up. No, you shut up.”

“Cas?”

Dean turned. Cas already had his cell phone out. “He's not answering,” he said nervously. “Gabriel's phone is going to voice mail.”

“What's going on?” Dean asked Virgil. 

Jo was down next to him, her sword at Virgil's throat. “What are they up to?” she asked.

“I'm not answering a woman,” grumbled Virgil. “That's sexist, you know. Oh, don't start, Shamsiel. Lucifer is there. He wants Castiel. See? That wasn't so hard. You gave away the surprise.”

“This guy is giving me a headache!” said Dean.

“I should go,” said Cas, his face pale.

“Oh, no!” Dean told him. “You're not pulling a disappearing act again! I'm going with you this time.”

“And I'm going with you guys!” said Sam.

“And I'm going with Sam,” said Jess.

“And we're all going with Jess!” said Jo.

“You’re not going anywhere, young lady!” Ellen scolded Jo. “Not without a decent breakfast!”

“All right, everybody, hold your horses!” said Bobby, holding up his hands for calm. “This loyalty brings tears to my eyes. But we're not any of us going _anywhere_ without a plan.”

 

Some hours later, a semi pulled up in the parking lot of Lucifer’s dojo. It had Wellman markings on the side.

Someone hurried out to meet it. “I didn't think we were supposed to get a delivery today.”

“I have an order here for a gross of Wellman Wellies,” said the mulleted driver, officiously consulting his clipboard.

“But we thought they had liquidated?” said the guy from the dojo.

“Yeah, you're right. We're distributing the leftover inventory.”

“You want it or not?” asked the big guy sitting next to the driver, fingering the crucifix around his neck.

“We want it! Of course!” said the dojo guy. 

Benny and Ash nodded at each other, and then ambled out, opened the back, and began loading cartons into the dojo's loading dock area.

“Aren't these cartons bigger than usual?”

“Yeah, the new guys who are in charge, they don't know how to do anything right,” sighed Ash.

 

Sam put down his binoculars and grinned. He shinnied back down to the ground from up in the tree branch where he’d been perched. “Hook, line and sinker,” he said. There were smiles and nods from the crowd.

“One less thing to be nervous about,” said Bobby. A rather large group of swordsmen were gathered around the tree, up the hill just out of sight of the dojo down below. “All right, you boys, that’s your cue.”

Cas hitched up his scabbard. “I still think it would be better for me to go alone.”

“And I still think, no fucking way,” Dean told him. “Come on.”

“Now, remember, you two,” scolded Coach Henricksen. “We talked about this. You just distract Lucifer. No heroics.”

“No, sir,” muttered Cas.

“Winchester?” said Henricksen, casting a critical eye on Dean.

“Yeah. No heroics,” Dean muttered. He was nearly bouncing up and down on his heels. “Can we go?”

“Good luck, you guys,” said Jess, who was nervously bonking the flat of her sword on her boot. She had switched out of her Wellman Wellies into real dueling boots. Several people nodded in agreement.

Suddenly, Meg popped out of the crowd, fisted Cas’s collar, pulled him down and kissed him full on the lips. There were a couple of hoots and catcalls, and Pamela might have whistled. “Good luck,” she told him when she finally let him go.

“Er. Thank you, Meg,” muttered Cas, cheeks flushed bright red, as he was released from her grasp.

“Hey, what about me?” asked Dean, but Meg merely arched and eyebrow and stepped back, smirking at him. Dean turned to see Cas was already stalking away, so he rushed to join him. “Hey, wait up!”

There was a rumble up the road in the other direction, and the Wellman truck pulled up nearby. Benny and Ash hopped out and came to join the group.

“About time you ladies decided to join us!” Henricksen shouted at them.

“We couldn’t miss the best part!” Benny declared, rubbing his hands together.

“You boys delivered the packages?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah, and they even signed off on it,” laughed Ash, holding up a clipboard. Bobby peered at it, and then broke out laughing. Henricksen looked over Bobby’s shoulder. On the signature line, there was a big, sloppy “X.”

“Not the sharpest tools in the shed, those angels,” cracked Bobby.

 

“So Meg is a _demon_? No way!” Dean quickened his pace, trying to keep up with Cas.

“Yes. It should have been apparent, as she was playing for Crowley.”

“But he was too skeezy for her? Another demon?”

Cas shrugged. He and Dean paused in the courtyard and watched the front gate close behind them with a slam. He shuddered. “She has said she will give up the possession at the end of the school term.”

“You know, she's kind of hot for you.”

Cas shrugged again. And then he turned and began walking through the courtyard towards the dojo's front doors.

“You do realize that, right?”

“Yeah, I think I figured that one out on my own.”

“So. You don't like girls? Not that I'm complaining....”

“I haven't thought about it. I like _you_.”

“I knew it! Is it my good looks? My winning personality?”

Cas gave him a look.

“Come on, Cas. Trying to cheer you up.”

“I don't know if I need 'cheering' in this situation.”

“Think of me like your street fighting partner. I mean, you guys are like comedy teams, right?”

Cas stopped short in the middle of the courtyard. “What?”

“Like comedy teams! You know, there's the straight man and the funny guy. And I'm the funny guy.”

“Why can't _I_ be the funny guy? Aren't I funny?”

“You're very funny, Cas.”

Cas glared. “Now you're patronizing me.”

“Castiel!”

Cas and Dean halted their bickering and turned towards the sound of the familiar voice. 

“Brought your boyfriend along again?” asked Lucifer. There were some other people gathered around him, but Cas recognized only a few of them. And Lucifer himself looked somewhat worse for wear, like he had a bad sunburn, or maybe stood in front of a microwave oven too long.

Dean snorted. “Are these all the guys you got left in the original, non-blown-to-Spaghetti Os state?” asked Dean.

“I will enjoy gutting you, Dean Winchester,” said Lucifer.

“You need to stand down. Father,” said Cas.

“Doubtful. You need to surrender, before I break your brother's other kneecap.”

Cas looked at Dean, who nodded. Steeling himself, he stepped forward, and bowed formally.

“Wait. You're … challenging me?” laughed Lucifer.

“You must answer,” said a nervous looking guy with glasses who stood beside Lucifer.

Lucifer tutted. “You're kidding, Raphael.”

“It would be dishonorable!”

“Oh for....” Lucifer turned to face Cas again. “All right. How about this. After I slice your legs off, you can watch me eviscerate him,” he added, pointing to Dean.

Dean grinned. “Hey, Luci, has anybody ever told you you're kind of fucked up in the head?”

“Shut up, mud monkey.”

“Speaking of monkeys, what happened to your monkey suit? You don’t look so good.”

“Inside. Now,” barked Lucifer.

 

“Why are we still getting the fucking boots?” 

“I dunno. I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat before we unpack this shit.”

The light switched off in the storeroom and the two men departed.

The room was silent for a moment.

And then suddenly the tip of a sword poked out of one of the boxes. It tore down the seam, and the carton burst open.

“Hey, how you like the girl in the cake?” asked Jo, springing up. She looked around. She knocked on the other Wellman carton and whispered, “You okay in there?”

“Help me out,” came a muffled voice. “I'm stuck.”

“How did you get stuck, Gordon?”

“C'mon, Jo. This fucking box is too small.”

“We told you you're too big. Watch out!” she warned, and then took her sword to the carton. 

“Ouch!” said Gordon, sitting up. “I think I wrenched my back.”

“Big baby. Come on.” She extended a hand and helped him to his feet. “You got your stuff?”

Gordon checked his backpack and nodded.

“Let's go find the controls for the gate and do the open sesame thingie!” She grabbed Gordon's arm and skipped off.

 

Sam was back up in the tree, squinting through his binoculars.

“You don't need to watch, kid,” Bobby called up. “I'm sure we'll notice.”

“I don't wanna miss Gordon’s signal.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. A pickup truck pulled up to where the group had gathered. Everyone turned to look as a dark-haired man emerged.

“Dad?” said Sam, who slipped down from the branch. “I thought you took off?”

“I heard you could use an extra sword,” said John, gripping his son by the shoulder.

“We could use all the help we can get,” said Bobby. “We need to give 'em a few minutes to get in position. 

John looked around at the assembled crowd. “Where's Dean?”

Bobby and Sam exchanged a worried glance.

They both ducked as the explosion rocked the countryside.

“I think that was the signal!” cried Sam.

“Oh, you think?” growled Bobby. He snatched away the binoculars from Sam and peered down the hill. “Dammit, Gordon, you idjit. I think he blew off the entire top floor.” He put down the binoculars. “All right, everybody. Gate’s open: get mounted!”

 

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” gushed Zachariah as Lucifer and his men led Cas and Dean into the gymnasium. Cas noticed the smashed windows hadn’t been repaired yet, only boarded over. All the shattered glass had been swept away. He cringed and his feet throbbed at the memory.

“Where is my brother, Zachariah?” said Cas.

“Why aren't you gutted yet?” sniffed Zachariah. “Lucifer, you said you were going to finish him.”

“He challenged me to a duel,” said Lucifer. “And I'm bored. So bored.”

“A duel? We don't have time for that kind of nonsense,” Zachariah insisted. “You know that!”

“Quit being an old queen,” sighed Lucifer. “Maybe I like toying with my food. You! Raphael. You're my second.”

“You're really going through with this?” asked Zachariah.

The explosion threw everybody off their feet.

“That came from the roof!” said Raphael, looking up nervously.

“Everybody! They must have found a way in upstairs” said Zachariah. “This is just a diversion. Go!” 

“Not you!” Lucifer told Castiel as his men rushed out of the room. “You're not getting out of this.”

Zachariah glared at Lucifer. “I'm going to go check on our prisoner. Get rid of them. Both of them. And make it quick.” He turned and stomped out of the room.

Dean turned to Lucifer and smiled. “You know, if you hurt Cas, you can’t use him as a vessel.”

“What?” Cas stared at Lucifer.

“What?” said Raphael, adjusting his eyeglasses. “You said.... You said we would be fine.”

“Why didn't you go upstairs?” Lucifer asked Raphael.

“I'm your second,” Raphael reminded him.

“He didn't tell you without the drug you need to bail your vessel?” Dean asked Raphael.

“Don't listen to him,” said Lucifer. “Come on, we are going to finish this.”

“Did you tell Zachariah you're planning to jump ship, Luci? Or did he know the other guys would realize their days were numbered?”

“On your mark, Castiel. Now.”

Cas raised his sword. And then he let it fall to the side. He held up his hands. “Go ahead.”

“No.”

“Go ahead. If this is a real duel, strike me.”

“Lucifer,” said Raphael.

Lucifer lunged, and smacked Dean on the back with his sword. He grabbed Dean and held him up, holding his sword at Dean's neck.

“You will cooperate this time,” Lucifer told Cas. “Or I will gut him.”

Cas ignited his sword. 

And held it at his own throat. “And who will you use as a vessel next?”

“No, don't do it,” hissed Lucifer.

“Cas,” whispered Dean.

“No!” shouted Raphael. “This is dishonorable!” He pulled out his weapon and struck Lucifer in the shoulder. Lucifer dropped Dean, turned and plunged his blade straight into Raphael's heart, the blade sparking red as it pushed out through his back. Raphael fell without a word, eyes wide at the betrayal. Dean ran at Lucifer, who turned and hit him full force with the flat of his sword. Dean, unshielded, screamed and sunk to his knees.

And then Cas lunged at Lucifer, who parried, quick as a cat. “There's no walls here, boy!” yelled Lucifer. “You're mine.

 

A gaggle of Lucifer's men hit what remained of the roof.

“Why is there no one up here?”

“I dunno.”

One of the brighter ones scanned the countryside. “Hey, were we supposed to leave the gate open?”

“I don't think so. Why?”

“Well, because it's open.”

“Oh, we should shut it.”

“Maybe we could call them?”

“Call who?”

“All the swordsmen in the courtyard.”

“What swordsmen in the courtyard?”

The lackey pointed. 

Several heads pondered.

“Oh, shit!”

And then they were running downstairs.

Except for the one lone guy. 

“But, what should we do about the gate?”

And the he gasped, staring at the sword point that was sticking out of his body.

He crumpled to the ground as Gordon withdrew the sword. “Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Not the sharpest tool in the shed. Jo?” Jo came out of hiding as well, and the two of them hurried down the stairs.

 

“Are you behind this?” asked Zachariah, who had just stormed into the small, windowless room where Gabriel was being held.

“What's the word, Zach?” said Gabriel. He was lying on his bed, playing with a yo-yo.

“Gabriel, did you let them in here?”

“Let who in?” sighed Gabriel, who could not have acted less interested.

“You know who!”

“Really not in the mood for guessing games right now.” He counted off on his fingers. “I had myself down to mope, and then maybe sulk.”

“Your brother is here!”

“Oh. Which brother?”

“Didn't you hear the explosion?”

“What explosion?”

“What the hell have you been doing in here?” thundered Zachariah, drawing his sword.

Gabriel lashed out with the yoyo, looping the string around Zachariah's throat. He pulled, hard, and brought Zachariah down, choking, to his knees.

Gabriel grabbed Zachariah's sword out of his hand and pushed him over. “I've been practicing yo-yo!” he whispered. And then he limped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

“This way!” shouted Sam. “We gotta find Dean and Cas.”

“Upstairs or downstairs?” asked Bobby.

“Dad and I will take upstairs, you guys take downstairs,” Sam told them. Bobby and Henricksen nodded at each other and took off towards the kitchen.

“This place is like a labyrinth,” huffed Sam as he and John made their way up a narrow staircase.

“They were built that way,” John told him. “Intentionally. To discourage what we're trying to do.”

“You can't lay seige to a dojo?”

“No.”

Sam grinned. “Then we're idiots.”

Father and son shared a smile.

Sam signaled for them to stop just before they reached the landing. He had picked up the faint sound of floorboards creaking. He raised his sword. 

And then leapt into the hall.

“Gabriel!”

Gabriel lowered Zachariah's sword. “Oh, shit. You scared me, Sam.”

“Have you seen Dean and Cas?”

“No. I've been looking for Balthazar. They stashed him up here somewhere.”

“How do you trap a guy like Balthazar?” asked Sam.

“There are ways,” said John. “Holy oil fire, for one. Do you smell smoke anywhere? That's a way to tell.”

Suddenly the door just down the hall blew off the hinges. Zachariah stormed out.

“Will you stay where I put you?” Gabriel yelled raising his sword.

Zachariah literally growled and raised a hand. Suddenly, Gabriel, Sam and John were hurled backwards down the hall and slammed into the wall.

“Uh, can he do that?” asked Sam, shaking his head.

“Yeah. He can do that,” said John, pushing himself to his feet.

“Shit,” said Sam.

“Hold him off you two!” yelled Gabriel. “I'm going to find Balthy!”

“Hold him how?” Sam yelled after him.

“He sure moves fast for a guy with a limp,” said John.

 

Lucifer had been right: the lack of a cage wall was killing Cas. Lucifer was bigger and stronger, and knew how to take advantage of it.

Cas was quicker, but that only seemed to help him run away.

His wounded feet ached. And he was growing increasingly worried about Dean, lying there, barely moving.

Lucifer lumbered closer again. 

Usually, Cas would hitch some wall and get over him. But Lucifer was wily in keeping him away from the wall, or any object he could use to gain height. And he was absolutely relentless.

It was like fighting a god damn brick wall.

Cas stood and stared. Of course.

He gripped his sword, took a deep breath, and then rushed headlong towards Lucifer. 

And then he continued running, right on up Lucifer, stepping on his midsection, and landing a great kick right under his chin.

He flipped and landed painfully but solidly on two feet, whirled around and drove the blade home. Lucifer was shielded, but Cas was cranked to ten Teslas and the blade went in true, right in the middle of his chest. Cas smelled blood and ozone.

Lucifer screamed. And then he crackled and jerked, like he was holding on to a live wire.

Cas dropped his hands from the hilt of his sword and stepped back, shielding his eyes as Lucifer flared up, his body burned to a cinder. He blinked in wonder. There was nothing left but his sword spearing through a charred cinder.

“Cas?”

Cas spun around and rushed over to Dean.

 

It was like fighting a whirlwind.

Sam would hit him high, and John would hit him low, but then Zachariah would wind up and slam them back again.

“I'm worried my shielding is gonna break,” Sam told John the sixth or seventh time they found themselves slammed into a wall.

“I'm worried my head is gonna break,” said John. “We gotta get in close, Sam. It's the only way.”

“It's suicide,” said Sam.

“Come on!”

Sam had no choice but to follow his father as John hurled himself at Zachariah. The angel raised his hand once again, pushing Sam away, but John managed to duck under the blow this time. They wrestled for a time, but it wasn't much of a contest.

Sam, scrambling to his feet, heard a familiar click.

“Dad! Your shielding!”

Sam looked on in horror as Zachariah pulled his father's sword from his grasp and landed a blow right across John's chest. His electrical shielding disengaged, John spasmed and went down.

“No!” yelled Sam, who managed to get a good, clean blow across Zachariah's back.

Zachariah spun around, impossibly fast for someone so large. He had John's sword up and began raining clumsy but powerful blows down on Sam. They fought down the corridor, Sam backing up as Zachariah stormed relentlessly onward. Sam stopped, his back against the balustrade. He glanced down at the drop, and then clung to his sword.

Zachariah let out a cry and stumbled sideways, as if he had been hit by a great force.

“Zachariah,” said Balthazar, raising his sword. “You have shed innocent blood.”

“How the hell did you get out?” barked Zachariah. “I left you in the holy fire.”

Gabriel arrived, puffing and holding up a fire extinguisher. 

Balthazar smiled at Zachariah. “I have been waiting for over a century for this.” 

Zachariah raised his sword. And then, quicker than you would have imagined, he turned tail and rushed to the stairs.

Gabriel sent his yo-yo out to Zachariah, catching his neck, but Zachariah continued running, pulling Gabe with him.

Sam kicked out a leg, tripping Zachariah right at the top of the stairs. He toppled down, and as Gabriel fell to the floor, clinging to the yo-yo string, he gurgled, and there was a thump.

Sam stared down the staircase as Gabriel and Balthazar exchanged a glance. They hurried to the top of the stairs to see Zachariah's body broken on the stairs, his neck twisted almost all the way around.

“Well, that worked,” said Gabriel.

“Dad!” said Sam, turning around. 

“Oh, crap,” said Gabriel.

 

“Is that it?” asked Bobby as sirens wailed in the distance. 

There was a rather impressive contingent of street fighters now sitting in the middle of the courtyard. A whole lot of Jessica Moore's family tree, uncles and aunts and cousins, milled around, making arrests and binding up wounds.

“Sam is still in there,” Jess told him. “He and Mr. Winchester.”

“Jo and Gordon got out. I haven't seen Cas or Dean yet though,” Benny told them. “We been occupied out here.”

“We didn't get much farther inside than the kitchen,” Bobby admitted. “Victor, can we get a party to go take a look around inside?”

“Chief Moore is saying no,” Henricksen told him. “They're worried about damage from the explosion.”

“I knew it was too damn early to call in the cops,” Bobby muttered. “Jody would let me in.”

“This ain't her jurisdiction,” Victor pointed out.

Suddenly a group of people came stumbling out of the building.

“Thank you, Lord,” said Benny, kissing his crucifix.

“Oh no,” said Bobby, running over to them.

 

Cas ran over to where Dean was crumpled on the floor. He went down on his knees, pulling Dean into his lap.

“Bye bye Luci?” muttered Dean.

“Yeah, there's not much left.”

Dean reached up and touched Cas's face. “He hit me good. I-” And then he slumped.

“DEAN!” Cas frantically checked Dean's neck for a pulse. “Dean. Oh no. Oh god no. Please!”

Cas blinked in astonishment as a dark hand pressed on to Dean's chest.

“Joshua!” he said, blinking back tears.

A soft glow emitted from Joshua’s hand. Dean jerked, and then opened his eyes.

“Dean!”

Dean blinked in confusion. “Whoa. What the fuck?”

“Dean, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Castiel,” whispered Joshua, gently cupping Cas's face in his hands. “Listen to me. I am old. And grown weary. I have overstayed my time down here. This was the last I had, you understand? The very last.”

“Joshua,” said Cas, reaching for him. He gasped as his hand went right through him.

“Goodbye, my son,” said Joshua. 

And then he was no longer there. Cas jumped up and looked around frantically. “Joshua?”

“What the hell happened?” asked Dean, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

Cas crouched down next to him, wiping tears from his eyes. “I think you were … dead.”

“And there was a guy?”

Cas was searching the room with his eyes. “Joshua. He brought you back. But he's gone. Joshua!”

“Weird. Are you okay?”

“Yes. But Lucifer isn't.”

“Yeah, I noticed he's lost some weight.” Dean sniffed. “Smells like barbeque in here. Ew.”

Gabriel burst into the room. 

“Gabriel! You're all right!” said Cas.

“Dean. Come with me. Come quick!” said Gabe. He yanked Dean to his feet, and the three hurried out.

 

The ambulance sat in the parking lot, light flashing red and white, red and white.

“We need to get you out of here, Dad,” said Sam softly.

“Not until I see Dean!” said John, who once again tore off the oxygen mask the attendant was trying to fix on his face.

“Dad!” yelled Dean. He hopped up into the back of the ambulance, next to Sam.

“We gotta get him out of here,” Sam told Dean. “The only reason they're holding it is Jess's cousin is driving.”

“Dean,” said John, reaching out a hand to clasp Dean's.

“Hey, you heard 'em, Dad. You get going, and we'll see you at the hospital....”

“Dean. I got hit full force with a ten Tesla blow.”

“Dad-”

“I've had a heart attack already. They told me, don't strain myself.”

Dean looked at Sam, who nodded sadly. “Dammit, Dad. I didn’t know. We didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell us?”

John gripped Dean's hand and stared into his eyes. “Dean. Take care of your brother.”

“Dad, I....” Dean felt his own heart was about to stop. “Yes. I-”

But John was looking over Dean's shoulder. “And take care of my son,” said John.

“Yes, sir,” said Cas, who was hovering over Dean's shoulder. “Always.”

John nodded. And then his eyes rolled up in his head, and his body spasmed.

“DAD!” chorused both Sam and Dean. The paramedic shoved Dean aside and stuck his stethoscope onto John's chest.

“He's in defib,” the paramedic told his partner. The Winchesters were hustled out of the ambulance as one paramedic grabbed the defibrillator padles while the other cut open John's shirt, pasting the pads to his chest.

Dean became aware that Cas's hand was on his shoulder. Frantically, he turned towards Cas. “Joshua! Where’s your boss? He healed me! He could heal Dad!”

Cas sadly shook his head. “No, Dean.”

“No, Cas, let’s go inside! Let’s go find him.”

“He warned me,” said Cas, who made no move to follow. “He warned me. You were the last. You were the last he had in him. Somehow. He must have known.”

Dean looked towards the ambulance. An attendant, probably a Moore, pulling up a sheet.

Sam was sobbing in Jess's arms. The world slowed down. 

 

It was, they said, the biggest funeral they had ever had in the county. Dean didn’t even know the guy who ended up giving the eulogy, though he understood he was some politician from a neighboring state.

Dean was just relieved that he didn’t have to speak.

“He was telling the truth, Cas.” 

Dean had tossed some dirt on the coffin, and then had just walked away and kept on walking, finally finding a stone bench in a relatively deserted corner of the cemetery.

Cas had followed him, of course. He sat down next to Dean on the bench and loosened his tie. It was the first time he had ever worn a suit. He couldn’t seem to manage tying the tie. For some reason, it always ended up flipped around backwards. 

Bobby had taken him out to buy it, which was nice, because Bobby had a lot going on.

They all had a lot going on.

In the end, Bobby hadn't let Cas divest the entirety of Roman Enterprises. Instead, they had had one of Jess's more eccentric relatives (a cousin who for some reason had favored accounting over law enforcement) fashion something called a trust fund, which Cas would not have full access to until he turned 21. And then Bobby and he had withdrawn a little bit of money so he could get “a nice suit you can wear again.” 

It was strange to have a suit when he didn't even have a closet, but Dean had managed to clear out enough of his dueling crap from one side of the closet in their room that there was space to hang it up. And Dean had seemed thankful to have something, anything, to do.

“The truth? You mean your father?” asked Cas.

Dean nodded. “He told us there was a world out there. One we didn't know. And it's true: half the people here, three quarters of the people here today, I don't know them, Cas. They're people Dad knew, people he helped. And, I never realized.”

Cas looked wistful. “It's good that your father is remembered well.”

“Oh, man. I'm sorry. I haven’t even asked about how you’re doing. Damn. Lucifer was your dad.”

Cas glared. “Lucifer was not my father. Joshua was my father. And Balthazar. Bobby. Coach Henricksen.” He smiled. “Even Gabriel. They are the ones who have been there. When I needed them.”

Dean hooked an arm around Cas’s shoulders and pulled him nearer. Cas laid his head on Dean’s shoulder, and they stayed like that for a while, until Sam walked up.

“Hey, Sammy.” 

“So that’s where you guys snuck off to.”

“Sammy, I’ve been thinking.”

Sam smiled, though his were rimmed red. “You know you’re not supposed to have ideas while we’re in college.”

“No, I mean, seeing all these people here today. People Dad knew, people he helped. I feel like he was right all along: there’s a bigger world out there. And I need to do something to help.”

Sam smiled slyly. “Like maybe study for your midterm?”

Dean glared at his brother. “Hey, where’s Jess?”

Sam looked guilty, and then sat down on the bench next to Dean and Cas. “So, uh, you know Crowley’s team is all here?”

“That was … polite of them,” said Cas.

“They’ve all been through the demon jiffy wash, right?” asked Dean. “That’s gotta be weird.”

“Yeah, they’re not possessed any more. So it’s like they’ve all got personality transplants. Alastair is like this mousy engineering student.”

“So what about the others?” chuckled Dean, who knew his little brother all too well.

Sam leaned over and whispered, “So I went to talk to Ruby.”

“And?”

“She doesn’t even remember me!”

“Sammy. Did you want that chick to remember you?”

“Uhhhh.”

Dean placed an affectionate hand on his idiotic brother’s shoulder. “What say, after this, we go out and get really, really drunk.”

“You boys in the mood for an Irish wake?” asked Bobby, who was walking up with Jody Mills on his arm. He was ripping off his tie and tucking it away in a pocket. 

“Yes, please, Uncle Bobby,” sighed Sam. Dean ruffled his hair, and Sam batted it away.

“I think your daddy would approve,” said Bobby, who pulled a flask from his vest. 

“Where the hell did you get that, you old rascal?” laughed Jody. Bobby took a pull, and then offered it to Jody, who took a sip as well, and then the flask got passed around.

“By the way,” said Bobby, who was pulling something out of his vest pocket. “Found this in your dad's effects. I think John would have wanted you to have this.” It was a leather-bound journal.

“What is this, Bobby?” asked Dean, who took it and sat, hands running over the soft cover.

“That there is a hunter’s notebook. We all keep ‘em. I had one, back in the day.”

“I’m not supposed to know about this,” said Jody.

“It’s case notes, that sort of thing,” said Bobby. Dean had opened the notebook and sat flipping through the pages. They were all hand written, and the text was interspersed with a number of drawings. Dean recognized some of the pictures as sigils Bobby had used.

“Your father had lovely handwriting,” said Cas, who was hanging curiously over the notebook.

“Thanks, Uncle Bobby,” muttered Dean, who was immersed in the pages.

Benny and Ash had just strolled up. “Dean, your pappa was quite a guy. I was just talking to a young lady who told me about some of his adventures.”

“A really hot young lady,” snickerd Ash.

“Shut your mouth.”

“Benny,” said Sam. “You're picking up girls at my dad's funeral?”

“No. I mean....”

“You got her number?” asked Ash. Benny brought up his cell phone, smiling shyly. 

“Well it's good you decided to attend your father's funeral, ladies,” cracked Henricksen, who walked up with Ellen and several members of the fencing team.

“Listen, everybody,” said Ellen. “Victor and I and Ellen and Ash are gonna go open up the place.”

“Wait. Me too?” asked Gordon. Jo grabbed his arm defensively.

Ellen gave Gordon a dubious look, but Henricksen gripped his shoulder and laughed, “Yeah, you too. Just don't blow anything up!”

“Are you kidding?” asked Ash. “That was awesome!”

“Everybody,” said Ellen, as people began to chatter. “I want you all to come over. Remember your Daddy the way he would have wanted to be remembered.”

“Can we play Henricksen darts?” asked Benny.

“Fuck. You,” said Henricksen, lighting a cigarette. “And besides, I'll kick your ass the way I always do.”

“Hey, baby bro!” shouted Gabriel, who wandered up with both Meg and Pamela on his arms. He reached over and ruffed Cas's hair. Cas slapped him away. “Hey, you can't hit a poor cripple,” said Gabe, who pulled out a yo-yo and began to do tricks.

“You taking up a new sport, Gabe?” asked Bobby.

“I might!” laughed Gabe, who was walking the dog. 

“You coming with us?” asked Ellen, who was starting to wander away.

“Sure we are!” Gabriel told her, grabbing the arms of Pamela and Meg. “Uh, where we going exactly?”

“Do you even care?” cracked Pamela. Meg, who looked oddly shy and confused, wandered along as well.

The crowd began to disperse, headed in the general direction of their cars. “Uh, Meg-?” Dean asked Cas.

“It looks like she is no longer possessed,” said Cas, tilting his head as he watched people go.

“You disappointed?”

Cas smiled up at him. “Not really. No.”

Sam rose to follow them. “Well, time we headed out too. I should find Jess....”

“Wait,” said Dean.

Sam eyed his brother suspiciously. “What's up?”

“There’s something we gotta do first,” said Dean. He picked up the notebook. “I’ve been looking at Dad’s latest entry here. Come on, Sammy. We’ve got someone to visit. I’ll explain on the way.” Dean led off Cas, with a puzzled Sam following behind them.

 

The white boards really didn’t need washing, but Prof. Jaunoeil was very particular. “Janitors can’t be trusted, you know, I always say. They only work to collect their salary. Although they are better behaved, overall, than students. By the way, you can come out of there. I can hear you breathing from down here.”

Cas regretted, not for the first time, that this lecture hall had no windows. 

“You sure, Cas?” asked Dean, who emerged beside him.

“Yes. I’m certain now, Dean.”

“You’re not even one of my students, are you?” said Prof. Jaunoeil, peering at Dean. “Well, that makes it a bit messy. But everyone will believe a street fighter has gone berserk. That was a strategic error on your part.” His blade was out and humming softly. Cas caught the faint whiff of ozone. And … something else.

“Rotten eggs,” said Dean as Cas unsheathed his sword. “I’m curious: what’s your real name, Jaunoeil?”

Jaunoeil – or the demon who was possessing him – smiled. Cas could have sworn his eyes glinted yellow. He shivered. “It’s an old family name. One of the first, actually. So. What gave me away?”

“You didn’t. Our dad sniffed you out. And Cas just confirmed his suspicions.”

“Unhappy with your midterm grade were you, Mr. Singer?”

“Cas is an angel.”

Jaunoeil went utterly silent. And then he howled and thrust out a hand, and Dean went sprawling backwards over a row of seats.

Cas leapt down towards the lectern, flourishing his sword. He struck at Jaunoeil, but caught nothing but air. He heard the hum of a blade and whirled around: Jaunoeil was behind him. He barely managed to parry the blow, and hopped up on the desk. He winced. His feet still hurt.

“You can't win,” said Jaunoeil, and Cas for some reason got a glint from his eyes, like he had when they'd confronted Crowley's team back in that godforsaken vacant lot in Manhattan. 

Only there were not black. They were a sick shade of yellow.

Cas hopped off the desk, once again catching air with his strike. But this time he was sharp enough to whirl around and get in a few blows on Jaunoeil. But the the demon waved his hand, and Cas felt his blade click off. Jaunoeil hit him, hard, though Cas managed to parry with a dead blade. 

The microphone squealed with feedback. 

_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…._ intoned Sam's voice over the PA.

Jaunoeil glared at them. “I’ll be back!” he declared.

And then he threw his head back and belched out an acrid black smoke, which filled the room and then dissipated.

Jaunoeil collapsed, and Cas and Dean ran to his side.

“Hey, buddy, are you okay?” asked Dean.

Jaunoeil – the real Jaunoeil – blinked up at them, confused. “Are you here about your midterm grade?” he asked Cas.

 

“Was that awesome, or was that awesome?” asked Dean. “We make a kick ass team!”

The three boys strode across campus in the cool clear evening.

Sam eyed his brother. “Dean, I’m not clear what your role was, other than getting thrown across the room?”

“I’m the leader. Obviously!”

“He said he’d be back, Dean,” said Sam.

“Yeah. So, what we’ll do, you’ll research it, Sammy. And then we’ll be ready next time!”

“ _I’ll_ research?” asked Sam.

“Yeah. This is our new calling, Sam. Hunting monsters! The Winchester family business.”

“I thought Cas was a Singer?”

“Well. Hey, he's family. You can bring Jess next time, if you want.”

Sam looked dubious. “Jess has too many brains for this, I think.”

Dean extracted the car keys from his pocket. “Now, we gotta get our asses to Harvelle’s. There’s drinking to do!”

“Can I drive, Dean?” asked Cas.

“Baby? Hell no.”

Cas stared at him. “I thought I was an honorary Winchester now?”

“Except in matters automotive. Don’t get demanding, Cas.”

“Can I drive?” asked Sam.

“Hey, sure. Cas and I will sit in back. And get comfortable.”

“No way!” yelled Sam as Dean playfully tossed him the keys. But the key ring ended up on the end of Cas's sword.

“I got them!” cried a victorious Cas, who immediately tore off for the parking lot. Sam and Dean exchanged a baffled glance, and then, laughing, took off running after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to express my gratitude to the folks who stopped to comment or give kudos along the way. You guys really keep me going, thanks! :D


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